Brotherhood
by faepunk
Summary: They've lost so much, but they've always had each other. A look at the younger years of Michael and Lincoln. Based off of Veronica's, You two have the most dysfunctional idea of love I've ever seen, from Season One. Now Complete!
1. Chapter 1

When the lights had come on this morning, Lincoln had already been awake. His stuff had been all gathered up in a cardboard box with a lid, waiting.

When the C.O. had come to get him, he'd been ready, holding the box in both hands. It was Lou, who Lincoln generally thought was alright.

He'd done the release process before, but it had never seemed to take quite so long. He'd breathed through his nose and tried to remember all the things they'd said in anger management. Impatience, he'd figured, was not that far from anger, after all. And he was nearly exploding with it.

Lincoln watched as the guard looked through his meager belongings. "Don't get why you have to search it like that when it's on it's way out," he grumbled.

"Just making sure you've got what you came with," Lou replied, putting the Bible Lincoln had gotten from the detention center's priest into the box. "For inventory."

"Makin' sure I don't run off with someone else's shit?" Lincoln asked.

"Exactly," Lou replied. "You don't got much…but some of these boys come in with some expensive shit." He waggled his eyebrows.

"I know," Lincoln said. He'd heard all their bragging…and gotten in more than a few fights with those snot-nosed, suburban kids who didn't get how it worked, didn't understand that whether or not your folks had money didn't mean shit in here…unless you were sharing.

"Jeez, boy. It's cold out there, you know that?"

Lincoln nodded as Lou handed him his box. He set it down at his feet so he could adjust the lonely contents. "I saw out a window," he replied, remembering seeing snowflakes falling through the wired glass.

"Don't you have a sweater, boy?" the guard asked as he knelt to do that. "Or some real shoes?"

Lincoln shook his head. "This is it," he said, straightening and gesturing at the box of his belongings that sat at his feet.

"You're gonna freeze to death," Lou said, looking Lincoln over with sharp eyes. He shook his head. "I don't even have one to give you."

"I'll be fine," Lincoln said, shrugging. Lou had always been good to him.

"If you say so," the guard replied. "One more thing before you go." The guard handed him 150 dollars in cash.

Lincoln tucked the money in his pocket before asking, "What the hell am I supposed to do with that?" Because free money was better than no money at all; hell, without it, Lincoln didn't even know if he could make it back to Chicago.

The guard coughed. "On your 18th birthday, when you age out of the foster care system, they give you a hundred. The fifty's from the detention center, 'cause that's what they send with the boys who age out. Hundred fifty bucks."

Lincoln snorted. "Yeah, that's gonna get me real far," he said sarcastically. Lou shrugged.

"Better than nothin', ain't it? Anyway, I didn't make the rules, kid," he said.

He held out his hand, and Lincoln shook it. "Good luck."

Lincoln nodded and hefted up his box of belongings. The heft was for show; really, the box was nearly weightless. He'd come in with the clothes on his back, and left with those same clothes, which still fit six months later, and a few small items he'd accumulated over his stay. "Thanks, boss," he said.

Walking out alone felt strange. Alone, no cuffs, no social worker, no car. And there was snow, everywhere. He shivered, wishing he had a sweatshirt or something. When he'd gotten arrested in June, it had been hot as hell. Now, that tee shirt, jeans, and flip flops were nothing against the cold. He hurried out to the bus shelter and set down his box on the bench, then pulled his wallet out of his pocket. To his surprise, there was a ten dollar bill already inside; he exchanged the $150 for the $10, pushed it deep inside his pocket again, and started to blow on his hands and rub his arms, desperately trying to keep something like warmth while waiting for the bus.

But freezing or not, he was free. It was a good feeling, to be free. He curled his toes, trying to keep them away from the packed snow at the entrance of the shelter. And things were gonna be different now.

For him, and for Michael. The first thing he was going to do was find Michael; his social worker wouldn't tell him anything about his brother. He'd been starved for information for months now. He'd wondered why; wouldn't she, or couldn't she? He'd heard of people getting lost in the foster care system before, and it terrified him to think they might not be able to find Michael. But no, that was ridiculous. Of course he'd find Michael; he always did. And he'd take care of him. He was 18 now; he'd done it for months before Mom died, and it had been alright. And he'd been younger then.

The bus pulled up, breaking his train of thoughts. He lifted up his box and got on hastily, glad to get out of the cold. The warmth from the bus' heating system enveloped him and he let out a little sigh of relief as some of the chill left his bones.

"Chicago?" he asked, even though he knew the bus would take him there. The driver nodded wearily, and Lincoln handed him a ten and landed gracelessly in the first seat, his legs sprawling to take up as much space as possible. Why not? The bus was empty.

He settled back, enjoying the upholstered comfort of the seat, and didn't look back at the detention center as the bus rolled away. That was the past. He was never going there again, or anywhere like it. It would be different now.

He saw snow start to fall against the window. Without the wire from inside the jail, it looked peaceful and soft.

"Happy Birthday," he said under his breath to himself.

But despite the jaded edge to those words, Lincoln smiled. He was free…it wasn't a bad start, all things considered


	2. Chapter 2

Michael had ran. He'd known; that man had killed his foster father. Killed him. Michael hadn't seen any blood on his hands, but he knew it was there. And so he'd jerked out of the man's grip and ran as fast as he could, out of the house and down the street. And in his ears, he heard that anonymous man crying his name. "Michael!"

He didn't know how the man knew his name. It didn't matter. All he knew is that he had to get away.

He shivered violently. He was so cold. He didn't have a coat, didn't have a hat, or gloves, nothing. Just the jeans, shirt, and shoes he'd been wearing. He sniffed and wiped his nose with his sweater sleeve, leaving behind a smear of blood. Dang it. Now he had blood on his only shirt.

It had been a long, long night in the closet. He'd stayed awake the entire night, not trying to escape, not after the beating he'd been given for his first attempt. He'd just been watching and listening. Waiting. He'd seen the light turn on, and he'd been afraid, but it hadn't been his foster father…it had been that man.

He pushed aside those awful memories and tried to think. What was he going to do? He didn't know if anyone would find the man, or if they would know about Michael. He hadn't seen his social worker in a long time. Maybe no one would notice he was gone.

He kept walking, as fast as he could, warily watching all the grown ups who passed him. They didn't even seem to notice him. He kept his head ducked so the wind wouldn't sting his already injured face.

Michael spotted the smallest pale green corner in the packed snow of the sidewalk. He crouched down and dug at it, sure it was...yes!

A dollar. Enough to ride the bus. He clutched the bill tightly in his palm, his fingers numb from their brief contact with the snow. Immediately, a plan formed in his mind.

The bus station was warm, and you could hang out there for a long time before anyone got suspicious; Michael had learned that long ago, with Lincoln. It wasn't a great plan, but he would be warm, and he'd be able to think better if he was warm.

He walked to the bus shelter quickly, still shivering. It was already crowded; he joined a young Latina woman with a toddler, a big, scary-looking white guy with tattoos on his knuckles, and a little old black lady with a scarf tied around her hair. He cautiously slipped in next to the young woman with the little one, consciously giving the big man a lot of room.

"Mommy, what happened to his face?" the kid asked loudly.

Michael felt himself blush, and he turned away, intently staring at the snow. He heard the woman hush her child.

The bus pulled up, and Michael got on quickly, glad for the warmth. He quickly put his money in the slot and sat, curling his knees to his chest to take up as little space as possible. He knew it was about a twenty minute ride to the main station from here…nothing to do but wait it out.

Michael got off the bus and hurried into the warmth of the bus station. He headed into the bathroom immediately, knowing he needed to clean off his face. He glanced at the blood that had dried on his sleeve and sighed. Nothing could be done about that now, he knew. It would be there even if he tried to wash it out.

The big guy from the bus came in the door, and Michael looked at him cautiously via the mirror. He might have been the biggest man he'd ever seen—even bigger than Lincoln. Michael frowned at that. Lincoln. Boy, did he ever wish he could see his brother now. But Lincoln was in juvie. Michael wouldn't see him for a long time, probably.

Michael pulled a paper towel out of the dispenser and wet it under the spigot. The man disappeared into a stall, and Michael felt his shoulders relax a little. He couldn't help but be nervous, he supposed. He washed the blood off from under his nose and upper lip, dabbing at his nostril. His nose didn't hurt; he wondered why it had bled.

Red smeared over his pale skin, and he balled up the paper towel and reached for another one. The toilet flushing made him flinch.

His eyes lit on the man who exited the stall. He'd taken off his jacket, and he was wearing a tee shirt. His arms were completely covered in tattoos. Michael stared in the mirror, amazement overtaking his caution for a moment.

Suddenly, he realized the man was watching him. His eyes widened, and he looked away, frantically busying himself wetting the clean paper towel.

The guy walked up to the sink next to him and started washing his hands. "That's a hell of a shiner," he said. His voice was gruff.

Michael felt his body freeze. He nodded, staring down at the dirty porcelain of the sink, watching for movement out of the corner of his eye.

"How's the other guy look?"

Michael could hear laughter in the man's voice. The image of his dead foster father, lying in a pool of blood, hit him with the force of a sucker punch. "Worse," Michael said solemnly, meeting the man's eyes in the mirror. "He's dead."

The man's eyes widened slightly. "Huh," he said non-committally. "Tough little shit."

The man wiped his hands on his jeans and pulled his coat back on, covering his tattooed arms. He left the bathroom without giving Michael another glance. Michael was glad.

He wiped the rest of the blood off his face, and then washed off his whole face, wincing when the soap made contact with the scrapes or his fingertips with the bruises. He dried his face and looked at himself, meeting his own turquoise gaze.

It wasn't going to get much better than this, he decided. All the blood was gone, and there wasn't anything he could do about the scrapes or the bruises, except keep his head down.

Now, he just needed to find a quiet corner…or as close to quiet as you could find in a crowded Chicago bus station…and think. Figure out what on earth he was going to do. And not panic. Because that would do no good at all.

He left the bathroom and kept his back to the wall, carefully looking for a spot. Then, he found it. Under a staircase, a small nook. It was almost concealed from sight, because he would have to crawl behind a fake potted plant to get to it.

It was perfect.

He crawled in, and settled himself with his back in the corner, his arms curled around his knees. He could sit like this for hours, he knew. And he was going to sit here as long as he had to. Until he had a plan.

He sneezed as dust and dirt from the floor found their way into his nose, making his whole head hurt. He sighed.

Hopefully, he'd find that plan soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Lincoln got off the bus without his box of stuff. He hadn't had much. He hadn't seen any use for the Bible; he'd never been a very religious guy. He only had the completely inadequate clothes on his back, a lighter and half a pack of smokes, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a razor. He'd thrown the things into the pockets of his jeans, glad that they were baggy. He'd figure something else out later. Like a backpack, maybe. Or something.

He moved quickly into the bus station, trying to keep all the heat from leaving his body. It didn't seem to work. He kept his back to the wall. All those stints in juvie had taught him plenty; that was number one. He breathed on his hands to warm them.

He thought about the money in his pocket. He didn't really know how to go about finding Michael. He'd seen his social worker's card in his wallet; obviously it had been placed there after his arrest. He could call her, but he knew they didn't have the same worker. And she wasn't really his worker anymore anyway; he'd aged out. So that was not gonna get him anywhere, more than likely. He sighed.

His stomach rumbled then, reminding him that he'd skipped breakfast this morning in order to get out of the detention center faster. That, he could do something about. He did have $150 bucks.

He patted his wallet in his back pocket, reassuring himself it was still there, and widened his shoulders. It was an intimidation technique that had always worked well for him in lock-up, and he wanted space right now. He didn't want to deal with anyone stealing his last bit of money. He started walking through the crowded station, keeping a menacing look on his face.

The crowds parted for him. Not as dramatically as for Moses, perhaps, but enough that he didn't have to shove or elbow his way through anywhere. He kept his eyes up.

'Lincoln?"

He turned. Who had said his name? He didn't see anyone familiar in the crowd.

"Linc!"

Out of nowhere, something struck him hard in the chest. He grunted and his hands wrapped around that something. Someone. "Michael?" he said, disbelieving. All he could see was shaggy black hair and the tops of thin shoulders, as his face was buried in Lincoln's chest.

The faceless head nodded. "Uh huh," he heard. Definitely his brother's voice. And his brother's arms, clinging to his waist as though someone was going to yank him away at any moment. Well, it could be true.

"Michael, what are you doing here?" Lincoln asked. "Aren't you supposed to be with a foster parent or something?" He tried to push Michael far enough away so he could look clearly at him, but Michael clung to him fiercely.

"Aren't you supposed to be in juvie?" his brother countered, his words muffled by Lincoln's shirt.

"You forgot my birthday, Michael?" Lincoln said, pretending shock. "Not Michael Scofield. You remember everything!"

"It's December 5th?" Michael cried. His head jerked up, and his eyes met Lincoln's for the first time.

Lincoln was shocked at his brother's appearance. A huge shiner bloomed around his left eye, but somehow it hadn't swollen it shut. His chin and cheek were both covered in scrapes. "What happened to you, Mike?" he asked, dropping down to one knee to get a closer look at his brother's face.

"It's nothing," Michael said, turning his face. Lincoln grabbed his chin. He didn't miss the almost imperceptible flinch that the approach of his hand to Michael's face caused.

"Let me look," Lincoln said. He studied the scrapes. They were pretty fresh, and so was the bruise. "Who did this?"

"I'm fine," Michael said.

"Michael, who did this?" Lincoln asked, his voice rising. Michael recoiled slightly, and Lincoln felt guilt; someone had hurt his brother, and he hadn't been able to protect him. If he found out who'd done this, he was going to kill them.

"You run away?" he asked more gently. His brother's eyes widened, and his tongue flicked out and licked his lips nervously. "Michael," Lincoln warned.

"Yeah," Michael said. He blinked rapidly a couple of times, looking like he wanted to cry.

Lincoln sighed. He knew what he should do. Call Michael's social worker, and have them take him back to whatever god-awful foster home they'd had him in. But he'd known he was going to go looking for his brother so he could take care of him, so they could be together. And somehow, Michael had practically fallen into his lap. Like hell he would just give him back.

"You hungry?" he asked, rising to his feet. Michael's eyes snapped to his eagerly, and he nodded.

"Alright then. Come on." He clasped his hand over his brother's narrow shoulder and pulled him close, leading him through the crowd. "First things first. We'll figure out the rest later."

He could feel the tension leave Michael's shoulders. "Can we get a hotdog?" Michael asked.

"Sure," Lincoln replied. He didn't really care what they ate.

"Wait," Michael said. "It's your birthday. You should choose." Michael looked up at Lincoln. "Remember? On your birthday, you always get to choose."

It pulled at Lincoln's heart. Mom had always let the boys choose the menu on their birthdays; whatever they'd wanted, they'd gotten. He remembered Michael's last birthday before she'd died: they'd eaten orange Jello and burritos, a stomach-turning combination in his eyes, but it had been what Michael had wanted. That had been…God. Three long birthdays ago, for Michael.

"Alright," Lincoln said, smiling down at his brother. "I choose hotdogs."

Michael shook his head. "You're funny, Linc," he said.

They'd ended up eating McDonald's, because it was too early for the hotdog vendors to be out. Lincoln watched in astonishment as Michael gobbled down an entire McMuffin in less than two minutes.

"When's the last time you ate, little man?" he asked his brother.

Michael looked up at him, eyes wide. He looked nervous. "Um," he said. "Awhile."

Lincoln's stomach twisted, at the thought of his little brother being hurt and hungry and alone. He wanted to apologize to him, but there were no words that would make an adequate apology. He had never been good with words anyway. He growled under his breath. "You want another one?" he asked instead.

Michael nodded eagerly, and Lincoln plopped his second sandwich down in front of him. Watching Michael tear into it was painful.

"Don't move," Lincoln said. "I'll be right back." He rose from the table and headed back up to the McDonald's counter.

As he waited for his order, he studied his brother from a distance. His brother was paler; usually, his skin was a pale brown, not this nearly fluorescent white. And he hadn't grown much since Lincoln had seen him last; weren't kids supposed to grow a lot? He was awfully skinny though; Lincoln could feel how bony Michael was even through his sweater. He felt another flare of anger at whoever was supposed to be responsible for him; they'd obviously been doing a hell of a job.

He grabbed the paper sack off the counter when they called out his order number, and walked back over to Michael, who was shoving down the last bite of the second sandwich. "You full yet?" Lincoln asked him.

He could see Michael considering. "I think so," his brother replied finally.

"Okay," Lincoln said. "Let's go, then."

"Where?" Michael asked, standing promptly.

"Salvation Army. Goodwill. Somewhere we can get some stuff we need." Lincoln thought again, anxiously, about the small amount of money in his pocket. But he was freezing, and dressed in flip flops, and Michael didn't even have a coat…there was nothing he could do about it. He'd have to spend it.

"Okay," Michael said.

"Okay," Lincoln repeated. "Come on."

He started walking, and Michael fell in at his side. They were silent until they came to the doors to the outside.

"You're going to freeze," Michael said flatly. "You don't even have real shoes."

"Thanks for pointing that out, genius," Lincoln said. He sighed and looked out into the snow. Michael was right, though; he was going to freeze.

"There's a military surplus store about two blocks that way," Michael said, gesturing. Lincoln looked down at his brother.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"My bus went by there earlier," Michael said. "I saw boots and coats and backpacks and other stuff through the window."

Lincoln shook his head. Trust his brother to notice absolutely everything. "Two blocks?" Lincoln asked. Michael nodded.

"It's on the corner exactly two blocks that way," he replied.

"We'll run," Lincoln said, deciding. It would be easier and better than trying to find a Goodwill or something. They could get a couple basic necessities, and then get more stuff later, after they weren't freezing. "You ready, Mike?"

He waited until Michael squared his shoulders and nodded, looking too adult for ten years old. "Okay," Lincoln said, and he pushed open the door.

They started running. Lincoln didn't have to hold back his pace for Michael; the kid was fast. Luckily, in weather like today's, there weren't many people to dodge out on the sidewalk, and they could move as fast as they were able through the snow.

Lincoln's feet went numb almost instantly as he slogged through the snow. The sidewalks had been shoveled earlier, but snow was still falling, wet and heavy. The flakes hit the back of his neck and ran down into his shirt and down his back, making him shudder. He stole a quick look at Michael, whose breath was highly visible as he huffed and puffed with the effort of keeping up with his brother.

"Stop!" Michael gasped, bending nearly double, his hands on his knees. Lincoln skidded to a stop, feeling stabs of pain in his icy feet.

"Why?" Lincoln asked, looking at him. "It's cold out here, Mike!"

"The store," Michael replied. He straightened up, still breathing heavily. "It's right here."

Lincoln did a double take. He saw a small door, and a tiny window whose view was obscured with dirt. "This is the store?" he asked, peering inside. He vaguely made out an outline of a pair of boots and a backpack through the dust. How on earth had Michael noticed this from the distance of the bus, if he'd missed it from four feet?

"Yeah," Michael said. "Come on." Michael grabbed the door handle and pushed.

Blessed heat poured out from the surplus store, and both boys let out a sigh of relief as the door shut behind them. The smell of the store was strange, but not bad. Like oil, and starch, and random other things.

Lincoln wrapped his arms around himself and looked around. Boots. Backpacks. Coats. All things he could really use. He grinned down at his brother and ruffled his hair. "Good job Mikey."

Michael shivered. "Your hands are freezing," he said.

"Oh yeah?" Lincoln said. He reached down and put one hand on the back of Michael's neck, making him jump. "That's funny…your neck's awfully warm."

"Linc!" Michael protested, trying to pull away.

"Can I help you boys?" a voice rang out from the back of the store. Both brothers froze immediately. A man emerged, and Lincoln looked him over cautiously. He was just watching them.

"No sir," Michael answered meekly. "We're just getting some stuff we need."

Lincoln looked over at his brother, surprised. He'd never heard Michael sound that…cowed, before. His brother held himself stiffly, his hands clenched at his sides, his head up but his eyes cast down. What the hell?

Lincoln looked back at the shopkeeper, who seemed to relax. "You boys need any assistance, just holler," he said, not sounding so gruff anymore.

Lincoln nodded, and the shopkeeper turned away.

"I'm gonna look at coats," Michael said. "I'm really cold."

"Okay," Lincoln replied. He patted his brother's shoulder, and then turned towards the boots. After that god-awful run through the snow, he was never, ever wearing flip flops again.

Lincoln reluctantly handed over the one hundred dollar bill. The man gave him back a meager amount of change, which he tucked deep into his wallet. "Thank you," he said.

"Yeah, thanks," Lincoln said back. He grabbed the smaller of the two coats and handed it to Michael, who pulled it on eagerly. It swam on his small, thin frame, but at least he would be warm. That was all that really mattered, Lincoln supposed. And that way, he wouldn't grow out of it any time soon.

He leaned against the counter and pulled on the combat boots, then knelt down to lace and tie them. Immediately, his feet felt warmer and less raw. He considered throwing the flip flops away, and then decided against it. Who knew when they might come in handy? Instead, he stashed them in his newly purchased backpack, along with the rest of the stuff he'd brought back with him from juvie. He slipped his utility knife into his pocket, and pulled on the jacket. His fit much better than Michael's.

When he turned back to Michael, he already had his knit cap pulled over his hair. Lincoln yanked a matching one over his own closely shaved head. "Alright, Mike," he said. "Let's go."

The coats and hats, not to mention real footwear, helped against the cold, but it was still freezing. "Now what are we gonna do?" Michael asked as they started back down the street.

Lincoln tried to think about their options. They'd need some clothes…and some food…and where the hell were they gonna sleep? His head was starting to hurt. "Do you know what time it is, Michael?" he asked.

Michael licked his lips and shook his head. "Last I saw a clock, it was 12:14," he said.

"How long ago was that?" Lincoln asked. Michael shrugged.

"Uh…not that long ago," Michael replied.

Lincoln thought again about the rest of their money. Eighty bucks. Not much at all. Might as well go out with a bang. "You wanna go out for lunch, Mike?" he asked.

"Where'd you get all this money, Lincoln?" Michael asked.

Lincoln wrinkled his brow. "They gave me some when I left juvie," he said.

"How much?" Michael asked.

"$150," Lincoln replied.

"So you have around seventy two dollars left," Michael said.

"Eighty-something," Lincoln corrected. "How the fuck do you know that, anyway?"

Michael gave him a look. "It's simple math," he said. Lincoln was grateful that he at least left off the 'duh.' "Where are we gonna sleep tonight?"

Lincoln sighed. He'd forgotten, momentarily, exactly how smart his brother was. How he never missed anything. How he was detail-oriented to a glaringly irritating fault. "I haven't thought that far ahead yet," he said.

"I bet Veronica would let us stay with her," Michael said. "At least for tonight."

Vee. Of course. Lincoln let out a deep breath, thankful for Michael and his annoyingly smart brain. "Which is why we can afford lunch," he said. "Where do you want to eat?"

Aldo watched the boys leave the military surplus store; they were obviously glad to be reunited. Lincoln would take care of his brother. He'd been right to get Michael's records away from CPS. The boys would have a chance now, to try to have a normal life.

He turned and walked away.

When it started to get dark, they took the bus to Veronica's house. Both Lincoln and Michael had been there hundreds, if not thousands, of times in their lives, as visitors and as refugees. But that didn't make this time any less embarrassing.

"Just knock," Michael said, as Lincoln hesitated.

"I'm going to," he snapped back. He could see his own breath hanging in the darkness in front of his face. "I just want to figure out what the hell I'm gonna say."

Michael sighed. "How about the truth?" he asked. He ducked under Lincoln's arm and rapped twice on the door. Lincoln scowled at the back of his little brother's head.

"I was going to do that," he said grumpily.

"I didn't want to wait until frostbite set in," Michael replied.

Geez. When had Michael developed this biting sense of sarcasm? Lincoln was sorry he'd missed it. "Fine, you little shit," he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

The door swung open, revealing Veronica, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt. Her eyes widened when she saw them.

"Lincoln? Michael?" she said, opening the screen door. "What are you doing here? Come inside."

They both shuffled inside, wiping their feet on the rug inside the door. Veronica shut and locked the door behind them, then turned to face them. "Guys?" she said. "Linc, I thought you were in juvie."

"My birthday," he said, shrugging. "I, uh…aged out." He felt himself blushing slightly, and he ducked his head.

"It's good to see you," Veronica said. She smiled at him, and Lincoln felt his heart stutter in his chest. God, she was just as beautiful as he remembered. She turned those gorgeous eyes on Michael. "And Michael…where have you been?"

"Around," Michael replied evasively. His eyes met hers. "Can we stay here tonight?"

Lincoln blushed again. Michael and his…Michael-ness.

"Uh…of course," Veronica replied. "My parents are out of town right now, on business," she said to Lincoln. "Some kind of convention or something. I didn't really ask."

Lincoln shrugged off his coat and draped it over a kitchen chair. "Sounds good to me," he said. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands, and they dangled awkwardly at his sides.

"Aren't you even gonna hug me?" Vee asked. She stepped closer to Lincoln, and he wrapped his arms around her. Her form felt familiar in his arms, and he let out a small sigh of contentment.

"It's good to see you, too, Vee," he said into her hair.

"I'm glad you're finally out of there," she replied. "And with Michael…how'd that happen so fast? Isn't your birthday…today?" She pushed away from his chest and looked up into his eyes.

"That," Lincoln said, "is an interesting story. One I'm sure Mike would be willing to tell you."

Vee swatted his chest, but Michael, who'd slithered out of his oversized jacket, grinned. "Want to hear it?" he asked.

"Sure," Veronica replied. "How about I make us some hot chocolate first?"

"Sounds great," Michael said, and Lincoln nodded.

"Sit down, boys," she directed, moving towards the kitchen counter. 'This will just take a second."

Lincoln collapsed gracelessly into one of the kitchen chairs, and he let himself relax. They were safe for tonight, and he could figure out tomorrow, tomorrow. Everything would be okay.


	4. Chapter 4

Michael sat at Veronica's kitchen counter, eating a second bowl of cereal. He watched Lincoln gulp down coffee.

"You guys know you can come back," Veronica said. "My parents go out of town so much…I think they're leaving again next weekend."

"I know, Vee," Lincoln said. "It's just…we can be crashing here forever. I mean, I'm gonna have to find a job. And Michael's gonna need to go back to school…I don't know. We'll go apartment hunting today, and if we don't come up with anything by the time your parents leave town again, we'll come back. Okay?"

"Okay," Veronica said.

Michael slurped down the last of his milk and stood up, bringing his bowl to the sink. He rinsed it out quickly with hot water.

"You don't have to do that, Michael," Veronica said.

"That's okay," he said. He turned to Lincoln, who stood, draining down the last of his coffee.

"Thanks, Vee," he said. He plopped the cup down on the counter and pulled her into a kiss. Michael grabbed his coat and pulled it on.

"Come on, Linc," he said. "We have a lot of stuff to do today."

Lincoln scoffed. "You sound like you're about forty years old," he said, but he let go of Veronica and put on his own jacket. "See you later," he said to Veronica.

"Be careful," she said, watching as Lincoln pulled open the front door.

"The old man and I will be fine," Lincoln replied, giving Michael a small push out the door. "Go."

"Bye Veronica," Michael said. He waved at her, and walked out into the cold.

"You were in a hell of a hurry," Lincoln commented as he shut the door behind them.

"We really do have a lot of stuff to do," Michael said. He counted it out on his fingers. "We have to find an apartment, and a job for you, and get me back in school, and—"

"All right, all right. We're working on it, aren't we?" Lincoln asked. The brothers trudged through the snow towards the bus stop. Veronica had lent them a pretty decent chunk of money. "My parents will never notice it's gone," she'd said. Michael believed it; her parents never noticed anything. He wondered if it was nice, to just have money like that. He guessed it probably was.

"Let's look at apartments first," he said.

"Apartments?" Lincoln echoed.

"You have to have an address to register for school," Michael replied logically. "And to get a job."

Lincoln shook his head. "You're too damn smart, Mikey," he said.

"One of us has to be," Michael replied, and he smirked a little at the look on his brother's face.

"You better watch it, man, or I'm gonna white-wash you," Lincoln threatened, grabbing him. Michael struggled, giggling.

"No, Linc! Come on, man! It's cold!" he cried, laughing.

"You shoulda thought of that before you started being a smart ass," Lincoln replied, dumping his brother into the snow bank. Michael spluttered, jumping to his feet as the bus pulled up.

"Jerk!" he said. Lincoln just laughed.

"Come on."

Michael wrinkled his nose. The carpet was stained and matted, and a peculiar smell clung to the floor and walls. The apartment was a tiny, furniture-less studio.

"It's so gross, Linc," Michael said in an undertone.

"It's $169 a month," Lincoln said back. "Which I can afford. And unlike that other place, we don't have to share a bathroom with the entire floor."

Michael thought back to the other apartment they'd looked at, with the communal bathroom for the entire floor. Their own bathroom, Michael had to admit, was a plus. He hadn't liked the idea of sharing at all. He sighed.

"Think Vee would help us clean it up?" he asked.

Lincoln rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Mike," he said. He turned to the impatient landlord. "We'll take it."

As Lincoln and the landlord talked over the details, Michael looked over the apartment. He noted the peeling paint on the walls, the cigarette burns on the carpet, the cracked Formica countertop, the scratched linoleum in the narrow kitchen. He wandered into the tiny excuse for a bathroom and looked at the mildew-covered shower-curtain. In his brain, he began making a list of things they would need. Bleach, dish soap, sponges, a broom…he wandered back into the main room of the studio.

Lincoln was shaking the landlord's hand. "All right then," the landlord said gruffly. "You can come down to the office and sign the papers, get your keys, and we'll be in business."

"Good," Lincoln said. He turned to Michael and grinned. "One down."

"And so many left to go," Michael said.

Lincoln rolled his eyes. "Have a little faith, Michael. Since when are you such a pessimist?"

Michael just shrugged, and followed his brother and the landlord out of the shabby, ugly apartment. It was, he conceded, better than nothing.

"We have an address now, Michael," Lincoln said as they left the apartment building. He held up the piece of paper it was written on and started to read it off. "12—"

Michael finished reciting the address before Lincoln could read it off. Lincoln's eyes widened. "You already remember it?" he asked.

"I have a good memory," Michael replied.

"No shit," Lincoln said. He shook his head and folded up the slip of paper, tucking it into the pocket of his jeans. "Guess we ought to get you into school now, huh?"

"Yeah," Michael said. "I've missed school." He hadn't been to school for almost a month now, and he really did miss it.

"You've only missed a day or two, right?" Lincoln said.

Michael shook his head. "Longer than that," he said. Lincoln stopped.

"How much longer?" he asked. Michael tried to keep walking, but Lincoln grabbed his shoulder and turned so they were face to face. "Michael. How much school have you missed?"

"I don't know," Michael lied.

"Try," Lincoln said. "A few days? A week?"

"A few weeks?" Michael said, as a question.

"What?" Lincoln roared, . Michael flinched before he could stop himself.

"I didn't want to!" he defended himself. "It's just—he wouldn't—I didn't—I couldn't--!" Michael couldn't seem to finish a sentence suddenly. "I'm sorry, okay?" To his horror, he felt tears coming to his eyes. He tried desperately to blink them back.

"Oh, Michael." Suddenly, Lincoln sounded tired. "Don't cry, man. Come on."

"Please, don't be mad at me," Michael said. "I wanted to—" 

"I'm not mad at you, bud," he said. He sighed, and pulled Michael into his side. "It's not your fault. Jesus Christ, what the hell kind of place did they have you at anyway?"

Michael shook his head and forced the tears back. "I'm glad to be back with you," he said.

"Me too," Lincoln replied. He sighed again. "It's a good thing you're so fucking smart, or you'd be in trouble. Come on. We got to get you back in school."

Michael took a deep breath. "We need to take the 15X," he said, gesturing towards another bus stop. "It'll take us right past the elementary school."

"Okay, boy genius," Lincoln said. He patted his brother's shoulder. "Lead the way."

The bus arrived shortly, and they boarded, parting with two more precious dollars. Michael didn't know exactly how much Veronica had given Lincoln, but he hoped it was a lot. They still needed stuff.

Sitting on the bus, Michael absent-mindedly tapped his fingers against his knees. Lincoln's quiet question seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Your foster parents…are they the ones who gave you the bruises, Michael?" He could feel his brother's eyes on his face.

Michael didn't say anything. His fingers froze, mid-tap. He'd almost forgotten about how battered his face was, but of course Lincoln hadn't. He was looking at it. But it had been mild; the man had only attacked his face, not his body, and so it was easy for Michael to forget.

"You're a bad liar, Michael," Lincoln said, almost conversationally.

Michael didn't say anything.

"I should report them," Lincoln continued.

Michael turned. "You can't," he said.

"Why not?" Lincoln asked sharply. "They just get to beat on you, and you run away, so they'll put another kid in there?"

"Not gonna happen," Michael said.

"Why not?" Lincoln challenged.

Michael's mind flashed back to that image, of his dead foster father, eyes open, lying in a puddle of his own blood. That anonymous man had caused that. "It just won't," he said softly, trying to push away the morbid image. "Anyway, if you call CPS, then they'll know you have me. They might take me away again. It's not like you have legal custody of me."

Michael could see Lincoln thinking about that. He let out a silent sigh of relief when he saw his brother come to the only conclusion: Michael was correct.

"It'll heal," Michael said softly. "It's not a big deal."

Lincoln's face twisted. "Yes, it is," he said. "Christ, Michael."

They sat silently. Michael stared out the window, ignoring the tension emanating off his brother. He continued to tap his fingers against the seat.

Finally, he saw the school. He reached up and tugged on the cord to signal the stop to the driver. "This is it, Linc," he said. He saw his brother nod from his peripheral vision.

They stood as the bus pulled to a shuddering stop, and stepped off the bus. "I went here before, remember?" Michael said. "Two years ago, when we were in that one house, with those foster parents who smelled like cabbage."

Lincoln laughed. "I remember them," he said. "God. Cabbage soup."

"It wasn't that bad," Michael said.

"Whatever. I had the shits for a week," Lincoln replied. He put his hand on Michael's shoulder. "Come on."

They walked into the school. Instantly, Michael was flooded with memories. He remembered the cracked tiles, which hadn't been fixed in two years, and the dirty walls, and his teacher, and a few classmates. His unending boredom with the simple lessons, and his love of recess. His disappointment in the library, which was poorly stocked, and how much he'd loved the hot lunches in the cafeteria, simply because they didn't involve cabbage. He smiled at that thought. Those foster parents…the Keelers…they'd really loved cabbage. But they'd been pretty nice, in the grand scheme of things.

"Where's the goddamn office?" Lincoln muttered, looking around.

"This way," Michael replied, leading his brother. He remembered perfectly, even though he'd only been there once before, when Mrs. Keeler had brought him in to register him on his first day.

Just like two years ago, the SECRETARY sign on the door was missing the first E. Michael opened the door and he and Lincoln walked in. The secretary looked up at them. A different secretary than two years ago, Michael noted.

"Can I help you?" she asked, sounding bored.

"We just moved into the district," Lincoln said, "and we need to register him for school." He tapped Michael's shoulder, as if the woman wouldn't know who he was talking about.

She barely looked at either of them as she slapped a stack of papers in front of Lincoln. "Fill those out," she said. "I'll tell the principal you're here. Your name?"

"Lincoln Burrows, and this is Michael Scofield," Lincoln said. Michael had to hand it to his brother; he sounded like he knew what he was doing.

"Alright. There's a few chairs behind you, if you'd like," the secretary said. Pat. She wore a silver-plated nametag, pinned crookedly over her chest. Pat, Michael mused, was a perfect, non-descript secretary name. She walked out of sight.

Lincoln took the papers and sat down. "Sit," he told Michael.

"I'm not a dog," Michael answered, but he sat next to his brother. He watched over Lincoln's shoulder as Lincoln filled out the paperwork in his spiky handwriting. Watched as all his basic information spilled onto the page, and considered how it really said nothing at all about him.

He saw Lincoln's hand hesitate over 'Father's name," before writing in "Aldo Burrows" and under address, 'unknown.' Under 'Primary guardian,' Lincoln printed his own name.

"Address?" Lincoln whispered in an undertone. Michael stated it again, watching his brother copy it on the page. His pen skipped completely over phone number.

"Couldn't we put Vee's number in there?" Michael asked. Lincoln shook his head.

"And if her parents picked up? Nope."

Michael sighed and slouched in the chair as Lincoln continued with the paperwork.

The secretary came back out. "Mr. Granger will be with you shortly," she said, seating herself behind her desk. Michael nodded, but she didn't seem to pay him any attention at all.

Mr. Granger. Michael remembered him. He'd spoken with Mrs. Keeler about him as if he wasn't there. Michael was pretty used to people talking as though he wasn't there. He knew that because he was a kid, they thought he didn't understand. But Michael understood; he always had.

_"This is my foster son, Michael Scofield," Mrs. Keeler said. _

_"Hello, Michael," the principal said. Michael felt like hiding, and he wished desperately that Lincoln was there. But Lincoln was across town, at the high school. Michael instead dropped his eyes to the floor and tried to pretend he was invisible._

_"He's shy," Mrs. Keeler said, touching his shoulder lightly._

_"Foster children often are," the man replied. "We have more than our fair share in this school, unfortunately. Does he have any behavior or socialization issues?"_

_Michael's spine stiffened at those words The man made him sound like a puppy or something!. _

_"Not that I'm aware of," Mrs. Keeler replied. "He's only been with us for two days." She sounded timid to Michael._

_"Any records of special education or anything like that?" the principal asked._

_"No," Mrs. Keeler replied. Michael felt his hands clench into fists. This man thought he was…what? A behavior problem? Just plain stupid? He didn't seem to expect much, that was clear._

_"Well, we'll see how he does, I guess," the principal said._

"You okay, man?" Lincoln asked.

Michael realized he was breathing kind of heavily. He tried to calm down. "I'm not stupid," he said.

"No shit," Lincoln replied. "No one said you were." He sounded almost bored.

"This principal…he thought I was stupid two years ago. I remember." Michael looked up at Lincoln. "Don't let him think I'm stupid this time."

Lincoln's eyes met his. "He won't," Lincoln said.

"Mr. Burrows? I'm Jack Granger."

He remembered that voice. Michael forced himself to take a breath. He wasn't stupid.

Lincoln nudged Michael's knee with his own before standing. "Lincoln Burrows," Lincoln said, extending his hand. The men shook hands easily. The principal turned his attention to Michael, smiling fakely.

"And you must be—"

"Michael Scofield," Michael said, extending his own hand. No one was going to think he was stupid this time.

The man's eyes widened slightly, but he shook Michael's hand. "Very well. Come back to my office."

"Holding a grudge?" Lincoln asked as they walked back out to the bus stop.

"No," Michael denied hotly.

"I'd say yes," Lincoln said. "For you, that was pretty damn rude."

Michael just shrugged.

"How about you just prove him wrong, Mike," Lincoln said. "It's less likely to get you in trouble."

"How much money do you have left?" Michael asked, not wanting to have this conversation.

"Why?" Lincoln asked.

"Because. Our new apartment is a mess. An empty mess. So we should get some stuff for it." Michael snapped his fingers. "Hang on. Vee's got a bunch of stuff in her attic."

"How do you know that?" Lincoln asked.

"I looked," Michael said. "I had to do something while you guys were having sex last night."

He looked at Lincoln. To his satisfaction, his brother turned red. "Jesus Christ, Michael. Were you fucking listening?" Lincoln sounded aghast.

"No," Michael said. "Why do you think I went into the attic?" He smirked at his brother. "But I know there's a mattress up there…and a table, and a couple of folding chairs, and some other random stuff. I bet Veronica would let us have it."

"Yeah, she'd let me have it, all right. You were supposed to be asleep! Don't you dare tell her why you know that stuff's up there, Michael, you hear me? I will kick your ass." Lincoln shook his head. "Christ."

The bus pulled up, and Michael climbed the stairs. He dropped another dollar into the box and fell into a seat. "You know I wouldn't," he told his brother as Lincoln paid his own fare.

"Yeah," Lincoln said, plopping down next to him. "I know."

"Well, it looks better," Veronica said, her hands on her hips. She sounded as tired as Michael felt.

"Not good, though," Michael said. His eyes noticed every last stain, burn, and rip in the carpet, all the cracks in the tile, all the peeling paint.

"Stop complaining, already," Lincoln said. "We've got a roof over our heads and a fucking bed. It's not bad."

Michael just sniffed in response. It was true that he'd slept in worse. That closet had not been good accommodations; he hated spiders, and they resided there in abundance. And the dirt there had been incredible. Even his actual room at that house had been less than sanitary.

This day had been long, but productive. They'd managed to get this tiny studio fairly clean, and while it was still sparsely furnished, the stuff from Veronica's attic helped. They had the essentials anyway; a table, a few folding chairs, and a mattress. Veronica had also supplied them with sheets, pillows, towels, and blankets, and a trip to the dollar store had gotten them some dishes and cheap cookware, as well as basic toiletries and cleaning supplies. And a trip to Goodwill had gotten them both some clothes, so they wouldn't have to wear the same thing. All three of them were completely broke now, but they had almost everything they needed.

"You guys all set for tonight?" Veronica asked, looking at her watch. "It's getting pretty late."

"I think we're good," Lincoln said. "Thanks, Vee." He hugged her. Michael could see that Lincoln was exhausted too, from how he held his shoulders.

"You're welcome," she replied. They kissed, and she pulled away. "I have to get home, or I'm gonna fall asleep here. And there is no room."

"Goodnight, Veronica," Michael said.

"Goodnight, Michael," she replied. She smiled at him, and then again at Lincoln, and then left their apartment, shutting the door softly behind her.

Lincoln sighed and stretched his arms over his head. "Time for bed," he said, yawning. He plopped down onto the mattress and slid under the covers, then busied himself setting their new alarm clock. Veronica had made the bed for them; Michael figured it would likely never be made again. Unless Vee decided to make it again.

He dug through his small pile of new clothes until he found a set of sweats, and quickly changed into them. The apartment was heated, but not exactly warm. Lincoln had switched to sweats hours ago, complaining about how cold it was.

"Turn off the lights," Lincoln said, curling on his side and scrunching his eyes closed. Michael hesitated.

After nearly a minute, Lincoln's eyes popped open. "Turn off the lights, Mike," he said.

Last night, Michael had slept in the living room, with a lamp on. He hadn't turned off the lights all night. He never used to be afraid of the dark….but he never had been locked in a closet for hours before. He'd never gotten out, only to see his foster-father dead in a pool of blood. That had never been before. And now, now, he was afraid.

Those images flashed in front of his eyes again, grizzly and just as fresh as ever. He shuddered.

"Michael?" Lincoln's voice seemed far away.

"I don't want to," Michael said. He wrapped his arms around himself.

Lincoln groaned. "Why not?" he asked, propping himself up on his elbow. He was irritated now, and Michael turned away from him, staring at the light switch without speaking.

"Michael, why not?" Lincoln repeated.

"I'm scared of the dark," Michael said softly.

Lincoln sighed. When he spoke again, he didn't sound quite as irritated, though, and Michael was grateful. "Michael, I'm right here. The apartment's fucking tiny, man. Nothing's gonna get you in the dark. Even if there was something, which there isn't. Which you know."

Michael did know that But the pictures were in his brain. But he didn't want to tell Lincoln that. What he'd seen, what he'd been through, that was his secret. And he wanted to keep it to himself. He sighed too, a weary echo of Lincoln's own.

"Okay, fine," Lincoln said. Suddenly, his brother stood up. Michael flinched at the sudden movement, unsure of what was happening.

"Relax, Mike," Lincoln said, grabbing his shoulder lightly. "You know I'm not gonna hurt you." Lincoln took three long strides to the light switch and flipped it, plummeting them both into darkness.

Michael inhaled sharply. Fear erupted in his body immediately, and he heard himself whimper.

And then Lincoln was next to him, his hands on Michael's shoulders. "Come on, man. We got to get some sleep; both of us have stuff to do tomorrow. You've got school."

Michael's heart was still racing as Lincoln guided him to the mattress. "Lay down," his brother said, and Michael obeyed, crawling under the covers. Moments later, he felt Lincoln's weight on the other side of the mattress.

Michael was trembling. "Linc," he whimpered.

He felt the blankets shift as Lincoln made himself comfortable. Michael could feel the blood leaving his knuckles because he was gripping the blankets so tightly, but he couldn't seem to let go. He tried to make himself breathe.

He heard Lincoln sigh. "Come here, Michael," he heard him say, and then he felt his brother's hand on his shoulder, pulling him closer.

Lincoln's arm dropping over his shoulder and back was like oxygen; suddenly, Michael could breathe again. He sighed, and felt his shoulders relax, and his shaking slow.

"You okay now, Mike?" Lincoln asked, sounding tired.

"Uh huh," Michael replied after a moment. He was.

"Good. Go to sleep." Lincoln sighed again, and Michael felt his brother's breath ruffle his hair. Michael sniffed, and shut his eyes.

And surprisingly, he fell asleep without seeing any of those images…and without the lights. Just with his brother.


	5. Chapter 5

Lincoln ran into the restaurant, panting from exertion. He was late. Again. For the fourth time this week. And he knew, he just knew, he was fucked.

He skidded around the corner and collided solidly with his boss, Baker. The man's eyes narrowed.

"Baker, I—" Lincoln started to say.

"No. I've had enough," Baker said. There was real rage in his voice. "This is the fourth time you've been late this week, Burrows!"

"I can explain," Lincoln said. "My brother's sick, and—"

"I don't want to hear about it," he said. "Just get out of here. You're fired."

Lincoln blinked. "What?" he said. He felt his fists clenching.

"I said, you're fired, Burrows. Now get the hell out of my restaurant!" There seemed to be a real pleasure on the man's face. It made Lincoln's gut boil with rage.

"Fuck you," Lincoln said. "I need this fucking job!" Before he realized what he was doing, he'd grabbed the shorter man's collar and raised his fist.

Baker put his hands up. "Hitting me's not gonna get you your job back," he said. "I'll call the cops!"

Lincoln's thoughts flashed to Michael, who was lying in their shitty little apartment with a fever. He knew if he hit this guy and Baker called the cops, odds were good he'd end up in lockup again. Adult jail this time, not juvie. And then, what the hell would happen to Michael? It was a fucking miracle that CPS hadn't come around, and Lincoln wanted to keep that from happening. He released Baker.

"Fuck you, Baker," he said. He turned and started to walk away.

Baker scoffed. "You know when your last paycheck's coming," he called to Lincoln's back. Lincoln felt his shoulders stiffen, but he forced himself to keep walking, all the way out the back door and into the parking lot, to the bus stop.

It was snowing still, and Lincoln shivered. Was it really supposed to snow this much in March? His mother used to say, in like a lion, out like a lamb…well, hopefully she was right. It was way too fucking cold.

He thought again of Michael and his fever, and sighed. He should probably get him some chicken soup or something. Another thing his mother had always done when they were sick. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and quickly opened it. He had a few bucks.

He decided he'd stop at the store at the corner near their apartment. It was expensive, but it was closer, and the bus was supposed to be here any minute, because it was an express. He put his wallet away and tucked his hands deep in his pocket with another sigh.

Now he just had to figure out what the hell he was going to do about his job. He'd need another one. Soon. Now.

Maybe Vee could help him find one? He didn't think it could hurt her to ask. She'd be graduating high school soon, he knew. Just a few months. And then she'd be going to college. But until then…until then, she'd help him. He knew she would, because she always did. Vee was pretty damn reliable like that.

The bus pulled up, and he got on, finding a seat. It wasn't crowded. What the hell was he going to do now? Rent was due soon, and his last paycheck would cover that, but what about the electricity bill? The phone bill? They'd finally gotten one, because Michael's school had sent home note after note about his lack of telephone…he didn't want to have to deal with that again. And then there was groceries. Michael ate a lot, and Lincoln ate even more. Plus, Michael was still growing. Lincoln had bought his clothes big, but those clothes he'd bought him in December weren't going to last forever. Lincoln dropped his head into his hands. Jesus Christ.

What he really needed was a good sized chunk of money right now. He swallowed hard. He knew he could get that. Crab Simmons could hook him up with some money, in exchange for some not completely legal assistance, he knew. Except that put Michael at risk, because if Lincoln got caught…well, Michael wasn't old enough to take care of himself, and CPS would come around. And Lincoln couldn't lose Michael.

So that wasn't really an option. Lincoln cursed, drawing the attention of an old lady. She shook her head at him. He ignored her.

Maybe Derrick could help. He was a lot more small-time than Crab. The amount of money Lincoln could get from him would be significantly smaller, yeah, but so would be the amount of trouble he'd be in if he was caught. Vee could keep an eye on Michael for a couple of weeks if she had to, right? And Lincoln would be careful. He wouldn't get caught.

He looked out the window, then reached up and tugged on the cord. He'd walk from here. Derrick's place wasn't far.

Lincoln opened the door, then picked up his bags and brought them inside. He let go of the bags and locked the doors behind him, then looked down at his brother.

Michael was prone on the mattress, the covers twisted all around him. He turned to look at Lincoln as he came in. "Linc?" he croaked.

"None other," Lincoln replied, walking towards the bed. "How you doing, bud?"

Michael shook his head. "Not good," he said, sounding pathetic.

"I brought you some chicken soup," Lincoln said, gesturing towards one of the plastic bags. "You want some?"

Michael shook his head. "Not hungry," he said. Lincoln sighed and crouched down at the edge of the bed, putting his hand on Michael's forehead. He was still burning up.

"Maybe you should take a shower," Lincoln said. "A cool one. You're burning." 

"I know," Michael whined. "I've been burning all day."

"Come on," Lincoln said. "Stop whining. Get up."

He helped Michael stand, and gave him a gentle push towards the bathroom. "I'm going to make you some soup," he said. "You'll feel better. Trust me."

Michael didn't reply, shutting the bathroom door. Lincoln grabbed the plastic bags off the floor and put away the groceries, then pulled out the more precious packages out of the inside pocket of his jacket. The kind that would make him money.

"Not too much, man," he'd said to Derrick. "Just a little, to sell and make some money."

So Derrick had loaded him up, as well as giving him a small cash advance. "You're gonna pay me back all that," Derrick had said, "plus profit."

"I'll get some of it," Lincoln had said.

"Yeah," Derrick had said. "It'll split 65/35 my way."

"65/35?" Lincoln had said, disbelievingly.

"Take it or leave it," Derrick had replied.

So Lincoln had taken it. He hadn't had much choice, really.

Lincoln opened one of the tall cabinets, the ones Michael couldn't reach above the refrigerator, and stashed the packages there, behind a box of Cheerios that Veronica had bought for them and they'd never opened. Now it appeared they never would. It was a pretty good hiding place, Lincoln decided.

Lincoln sighed. He hoped Michael would never know what he'd done.

He reached into another cabinet and pulled out a small pot, and took one of the newly purchased cans of soup from another. Now, he just had to figure out how to make soup.

He dumped the soup into the pot, and then read the directions. Add water. Okay. He turned on the faucet.

A howl came from the bathroom. Lincoln turned off the faucet immediately, and ran towards the bathroom. "Michael?" he cried. "You okay?" 

"That's freezing!" he heard Michael yelp. "Don't turn on the water!"

Shit. "Sorry," Lincoln said, fighting the urge to laugh. "I forgot."

"Jerk," he heard Michael mutter. Lincoln walked back out to the kitchen.

Maybe the soup could wait.

Nearly an hour later, Michael was curled up in bed again, looking marginally cooler. "You looked stressed out," he said.

Lincoln felt his brow wrinkle more. Michael and his fucking…"You're imagining it," he said. He walked back into the narrow kitchen to stir the soup.

"Am not," Michael said. "That muscle in your jaw is working again."

Lincoln's hand went self-consciously to his jaw, where indeed, he was making a muscle twitch. He forced his teeth to stop clenching. "Do you have to notice _everything_, Michael?" he asked, unable to keep the note of frustration out of his voice.

"I can't help it," Michael said. "Low latent inhibition, remember?"

Lincoln sighed. It had been the school's idea to get him to see a shrink. Lincoln hadn't wanted it, but Michael had said, "It gets me out of spelling, which is sooo boring. And it's not gonna hurt anything. I'm too smart for a doctor anyway," and Lincoln had to admit Michael was probably right. So he'd signed the damn slip.

And Michael had come back with a fucking diagnosis. When they'd called Lincoln into the school, he'd been sweating bullets. Most of what the shrink had said had gone right over Lincoln's head; what he'd caught, basically, was that Michael was really fucking smart, and noticed everything. Which he'd known already. And that this had a name. LLI. Low latent inhibition. He sighed again.

"Please don't be mad at me," Michael said, and he sounded unsure suddenly. Lincoln felt his shoulders slump. How, he wondered, could Michael notice everything, and misinterpret so many things about his brother?

"I'm not mad at you, Mike," Lincoln said. "I'm just tired." And he did feel tired, suddenly. Really, really fucking tired. He looked down at the soup. "I think the soup's done," he said, turning off the heat. "You want some?"

Michael nodded, in that way Lincoln knew meant he really didn't. Lincoln sighed and moved the pot off the hot burner. "It's not the same as Mom's anyway," he said.

Michael shook his head. His eyes changed, and Lincoln turned to put the pot of soup in the refrigerator.

"Did you lose your job again?" Michael asked softly.

Lincoln nearly dropped the soup. He felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach. He pushed the soup to the back of the fridge and slammed it shut, then turned to face Michael again, who was watching him with wide eyes, propped up on his elbows. "Christ, Michael," he said.

"You did," Michael said. His tone wasn't accusing, just matter-of-fact, but it made Lincoln angry.

"Yes, I lost my fucking job. How the hell did you know that anyway?" He was growling at his brother now, and Michael cringed away, curling deeper under the covers.

"You're home, and if you were at work, you'd be there until six," Michael said. "It's only 3:17."

"What time did I get home at?" Lincoln asked, knowing Michael would know.

"2: 23," Michael replied meekly.

Lincoln slammed his fist against the counter. Pain radiated up his arm, and he ignored it. God damn it. There was no fucking way Michael wouldn't notice his new source of cash, not if he brought it out when he was awake. Michael noticed everything. But he'd have to try to keep it from him; Michael was still just ten. Just a kid. "Aah!" He growled. This was going to make life even more difficult.

He glanced towards Michael again, who was curled in a ball, shaking. Lincoln felt guilt. He was scaring the hell out of him. "Michael, stop it," he said. His voice still sounded harsh. He tried to make it softer. "Michael."

"I didn't mean to make you lose your job, Linc," he heard Michael say, even though his chin was tucked into his chest, muffling his speech. "I'm sorry."

His brain flashed back to this morning, when his brother had thrown up, splattering them both. It had been the reason Lincoln had been so late…but it hadn't been Michael's fault, and even Lincoln knew that. "It's not—fucking hell, Michael!" Lincoln said. He didn't know what to say or do. Hesitantly, he took the few steps towards the bed and laid his hand on Michael's back.

Michael burst into tears. "I'm sorry!" he pleaded. "Please."

Lincoln pulled away, unsure. What was he supposed to do? Fucking hell, he had no clue. He needed a smoke. He needed a joint, but he wasn't going to smoke one in front of Michael. A cigarette was going to have to do.

Michael was crying so hard he was practically choking. Lincoln felt desperation clawing at him. He had to get out of there, now. Get that nicotine in his system, get away from Michael, just for a little while. He'd come back later, and make sure he was okay. He hastily threw on his jacket and a cap.

He took the few steps into the kitchen and covertly grabbed some of the weed, stashing it inside his jacket pocket. He stole another glance at Michael, who was still crying so hard he couldn't possibly see. The desperation became stronger. He had to go.

He grabbed his keys and fled the apartment, letting the door slam behind him. He locked it; Michael would be safe that way. Then he ran, like someone was chasing him.

He could hear Michael crying until he hit the stairwell.

Lincoln unlocked the door. His senses were assaulted with the sour, pungent smell of vomit and the glare of bright lights. He blinked hard, entering the apartment and shutting and locking the door behind him.

Michael was asleep, curled in a tight ball on Lincoln's side of the mattress. Lincoln edged closer, afraid to look.

He'd thrown up all over the blanket, which he'd pushed aside. Lincoln took a deep breath and held it, grabbing the blanket and carrying it into the bathroom. He threw it into the tub. He could deal with it tomorrow.

He walked back into the main room. Michael hadn't moved. He inspected the mattress. By some blessing of God or fate, Michael hadn't hit the actual mattress, sheets, or pillows. Or himself. Just the blanket. "Thank God for small miracles," Lincoln muttered under his breath.

He shrugged off his coat and let it slide to the carpet, and clumsily kicked off his boots. Between the night and the pot, he was so fucking tired. He could deal with the mess in the bathroom tomorrow. He'd deal with everything tomorrow. He turned off the lights and stumbled over to the wrong side of the mattress, doing his best to land lightly.

He found a comfortable place on his back and linked his hands behind his head, letting himself relax into the effects of all the pot he'd smoked. Suddenly, he felt movement next to him.

"Linc?" he heard Michael whisper.

"Who else you gonna find here?" Lincoln asked. "You got a girlfriend I don't know about?"

"Are you still mad at me?" Michael whispered again.

Lincoln sighed. "I'm not mad at you, Mike," he said. "I was just mad I lost my job."

"I'm sorry," Michael said.

"It ain't your fault," Lincoln replied.

Suddenly, he felt Michael's head curl into his shoulder. "You smell good," he said, sniffing at Lincoln's sweatshirt.

Lincoln laughed out loud. "Go to sleep, Michael," he said, clumsily patting Michael's head. He often forgot that Michael was only ten…but then, something like this would remind him.

"Okay." He heard his brother yawn loudly in the dark. "Night, Linc," Michael said. He left his head on Lincoln's shoulder.

"Night." Lincoln stifled his chuckles. Michael's little comment had just made his night.


	6. Chapter 6

Michael's stomach was absolutely aching, he was so hungry. Lincoln was gone still; he was always gone lately, it seemed. The phone company had cut off their phone a few weeks ago, or Michael would have called Veronica. He was glad, at least, that they still had lights. He shivered at the thought of being all alone in the apartment in the dark, and forced back those same old images that made their way into his head.

Michael had never heard of a job that had hours like Lincoln kept. He didn't know every job that existed, of course, but he did know that most jobs…well, most jobs were not like Lincoln's. They usually involved money, for one thing.

He walked into the kitchen again. It was early May, and he was glad that it was finally starting to get warm. The snow was even melting outside. It helped keep it warmer in the apartment too.

There had to be some food left in the kitchen. Surely. Michael opened each cupboard again, hunting in the backs for something. Anything. He eyed a bear-shaped tube of honey, probably donated by Veronica; after all, what use would Lincoln have for honey? He supposed he could eat that…maybe there was something to mix it with?

There weren't any other food items in the lower cupboards; just dishes and pots and pans. He sighed and pulled himself onto the kitchen counter so he could get a better look at the top shelves of the cupboards, being careful not to knock over the piles of dirty dishes. He knew he should wash them, but he wanted to eat first. Then he'd wash the dishes. He nodded his head, even though there was no one to see him. That was his plan.

The first cupboard had cans in it. Michael eyed them critically. He wasn't very good at using the can opener still; Lincoln had tried to teach him, but last time, he'd spilled raviolis all over the place. And there weren't a lot of cans left…he'd better leave those alone. He sighed. They weren't very good cold anyway, and Michael didn't like using the stove. Absently, he rubbed at an old scar on the side of his hand, where his hand had brushed the burner at one of the many foster homes he'd lived at.

He crawled to the next cupboard. A bag of uncooked noodles sat inside it. Also a donation from Veronica, Michael knew. Lincoln hated cooking. He studied the noodles, trying to decide whether or not he could eat them without cooking them. Probably, he decided. They wouldn't be very good, but they would be something. If he sucked on them long enough, they would at least be soft enough not to cut him. Or he could soak them in hot water, or crunch them into really small pieces.

He put his hand on top of the refrigerator and carefully got to his feet. Was there anything in this cupboard? He'd never looked up here, not being tall enough to even reach the handle. He opened it.

Cheerios! Not his favorite cereal by any stretch of the imagination, but with a little honey and some water, it would probably taste almost like cereal with sugar and milk. He grabbed the box.

What on earth? Behind it, there were bags. Piled on top of each other, clear plastic bags, filled with…green stuff. Michael studied it intently. It looked like some kind of herb or something…but why on earth would Lincoln have bags and bags of herbs? Lincoln didn't even like to cook!

He sniffed at one of the bags. He recognized that smell, though. Distinct, sweetish, and good. That smell reminded him of Lincoln. He'd always liked that smell.

He heard Lincoln's key turn in the lock, and then Lincoln's voice. "Michael?"

"I'm in the kitchen," Michael replied. He sniffed at the closed bag again, then carefully opened it, trying to get a better smell.

"What the HELL are you doing?" Lincoln roared, coming around the corner. His eyes were wide and reddened.

Michael hadn't been expecting that reaction. He flinched, dropping the bag. It hit the kitchen floor, spilling its contents across the tiles.

Lincoln cursed wildly, dropping to his knees and scooping it back into the bag. Michael remained standing on the counter, pressing his back into the corner where the fridge met the cabinet. He could feel adrenaline pouring into his system.

Lincoln continued to spill curses as he stood and grabbed a broom. He swept up the last of the green stuff and dumped it into the bag, along with whatever dirt had been on the floor. Michael watched him with wide eyes. His brother looked insane as he tucked the bag inside his coat pocket.

Suddenly, Lincoln's eyes were on him. "What the FUCK are you doing?" he asked, tossing the broom towards the closet. It fell, making a loud clamor. A tremor shook Michael's body again.

"I was just—"

"You were just what?" Lincoln yelled. He took two long strides towards Michael and grabbed his legs. "Dumping my stash all over the fucking floor?"

Lincoln's hands tightened around his legs painfully, and Michael gasped. "I didn't mean to," he cried, trying to twist away. Lincoln's fingers were digging into the skin above his knees. "Lincoln!"

He could feel the handles of the cabinets digging into his back. "Lincoln, you're hurting me!" he cried.

Suddenly, Lincoln let go of his legs, so quickly he nearly fell. He reeled, and Lincoln grabbed him and yanked him off the counter, setting him down hard on the floor. Michael's teeth rattled from the impact.

"What the fuck were you doing up there?" Lincoln hissed at him, poking him hard in the chest with one finger. Michael backed up until he felt the counter behind him. Lincoln was in front of him, blocking off his path of exit.

"I just w-w-wanted something to eat," Michael stuttered. His brother's eyes were crazy, glassy and reddened, and he didn't look right. "Please, Linc! I didn't mean to spill that stuff!"

Lincoln was breathing hard, but he didn't say anything. Michael swallowed hard, and continued on hesitantly. "It's okay, isn't it? I mean…you fixed it, right? I d-d-don't mind eating d-d-dirt."

"Well, that's great, Michael, since that's all we're gonna be able to fucking afford if you ruined all this," Lincoln barked sarcastically, taking the bag out of his pocket and inspecting the contents.

"Wh-what is it?" Michael asked cautiously, watching Lincoln looking at the bag.

Lincoln looked at him again, for a long, long moment. Michael's eyes stayed on Lincoln's, even though they were glassy and angry-looking. Finally, Lincoln let out a loud huff and threw his head back, breaking eye contact.

"Jesus Christ, Michael," he said. He dropped his head down and looked at Michael again. "It's pot, okay?"

"Pot?" Michael replied.

"Yeah. Weed. You've heard of it, haven't you?" Lincoln grabbed his shoulder and held the bag in front of his face. "This stuff WAS prime."

Michael blinked a few times, trying to focus on the bag. It was too close to his face. "Weed?" he whispered, unsure of what Lincoln was talking about. He stared at the green blur until his eyes crossed.

Lincoln rolled his eyes and stuffed the bag back into his pocket. "Okay. We're gonna have a talk, Michael," he said.

Michael flinched, his mind rolling back to other times and places. In the past, those words had never meant anything good. "No. Please, Linc," he said, compressing into himself. He felt himself shudder again.

"Relax, Mike," Lincoln said roughly. "This is just gonna be a little talk about where money comes from, all right? Sit down."

Lincoln released his shoulder with a shove towards the kitchen table, and Michael reluctantly took a seat on one of the folding chairs. Lincoln took the bag out of his pocket again, dropping it down on the table in front of him with an unceremonious plop.

"This," he said, "is Exhibit A."

Michael laid on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Now, he knew where Lincoln was, sort of, and what he was doing, sort of. And it wasn't any better than thinking he had the world's worst hours at the world's worst job.

Lincoln had told him the facts. He was selling pot. A drug. It was illegal. If anyone knew what Lincoln was doing, he'd be arrested and taken to jail. And Michael would probably end up in foster care again.

Michael shuddered at the idea. Foster care again. No matter what, that couldn't happen. Because nothing could be as bad as what had happened in foster care. Being punished, hit and locked in a closet had been bad. What had happened when he'd gotten out…Michael would never, ever forget that puddle of blood or those cold, staring eyes. He shook his head, trying to push away the vile image.

So Michael would keep quiet about it. He wouldn't even tell Vee. Lincoln had made him promise not to tell Veronica. He'd promised; why would he tell Veronica something like that anyway? He didn't really tell Veronica that much anyway.

He heard the key in the lock, and he shut his eyes, feigning sleep. He heard Lincoln enter the apartment and shut and lock the door behind him. Michael pretended to shift in his sleep, rolling onto his side so his back was to the door.

"Fuck," he heard Lincoln say. "Oh, fuck." There was a loud clatter.

Michael knew that would have woken him. He turned over and sat up slowly, as if he'd been sleeping. "Linc?" he said.

He saw Lincoln's hand on the wall. And blood. Lots of it. Michael bit back a cry.

"Linc, what happened?" he yelped, jumping up. Lincoln turned. He was pressing his other hand to head..

"Nothing," Lincoln said. "I'm fine."

Michael ran over to Lincoln, terrified, but trying to get a better look. Lincoln pushed past him to the table, sitting at one of the chairs. "Get me a towel," he told Michael.

Michael blinked a couple of times, then hurried to the bathroom and grabbed the first towel he saw. He brought it out to Lincoln, who pressed it to his head behind his ear.

"What happened?" Michael asked again.

"Nothing," Lincoln replied again. Michael swallowed, watching as blood trickled down his hands and disappeared into the sleeves of his coat. His mind flashed back to another man, another day, different blood. He shuddered, and turned away from Lincoln, unlocking the apartment door.

"Where are you going?" Lincoln barked.

Michael ignored him, running out of the apartment, letting the door slam behind him.

He didn't bother knocking on either of the next two apartment doors; the guy next door worked nights and was gone, and the lady next to him always had guys going in and out of her place. But the lady who lived next door to her had a toddler, and was pretty nice. She'd given Michael a quarter once, when one of the washing machines had stolen his.

He knocked on her door. "Melinda?" he called. He remembered her name from the short exchange in the laundry room.

"Who's there?" she asked after a moment, sounding suspicious. Michael quickly realized that he was too short for her to see him through the peephole. He backed up so she'd be able to see him.

The door cracked open. "Boy, what are you doing banging on my door at this time of night?" she asked. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted out into the hallway. Michael nervously licked his lips.

"Do you have a phone, ma'am?" he asked.

"A phone?" she repeated.

"Ours got cut off, and I gotta call someone. Please. My brother…he's bleedin' all over the place." Michael said. Again, the images flickered through his brain, and his body shook.

Melinda hesitated for just a second. "Hell. They're gonna cut my phone off end of the month anyway," she said. "You gotta call the cops?"

Michael shook his head. "Unh-uh," he said. "His girlfriend's got a car."

"Okay," she replied. "Come on. Don't wake Hannah."

Hannah. Her daughter. Michael slid into the narrow opening of the door. She gestured towards her kitchen. "Phone's in there," she said.

Michael found it, and dialed Veronica's number quickly from memory. He twisted the curly cord anxiously in his fingers.

She picked up on the third ring. "Hello?" she said.

"Veronica? You gotta come over here. Now. Lincoln's bleeding." Michael's heart was thumping.

"What? Michael? What happened?" Veronica's voice sounded panicked through the receiver, feeding Michael's own panic.

"I don't know. He came home, and his head, his ear, is bleeding. Please, Vee. I don't…I can't call the cops. You have a car. Please!" Michael pleaded. 

"Michael, you should call 911!" Veronica said.

"I can't, Vee! Are you gonna come?" he asked impatiently.

There was a short pause that seemed like an eternity to Michael. "I'm on my way," she said. He heard the phone drop into the receiver, and he hung up his end.

"Thank you," he said to Melinda. She nodded at him and lit another cigarette.

Michael left her apartment and ran back down the hall to his own, terrified at what he might find. Now, Lincoln's face was superimposed over his image of his foster father. No, no, no, no…

When he burst into the apartment, Lincoln was exactly where he'd left him, sitting at the table. The towel was still pressed to his head, and Michael could see the blood soaking through in places.

"Where the hell did you go?" Lincoln asked. Michael tried to catch his breath, still staring at Lincoln. Who was alive, but still bleeding. Still bleeding.

Had his foster father bled like that, a little at a time, to create that puddle? Or had it been more like a gush? Michael didn't know, and that terrified him. What if, eventually, Lincoln would end up on the floor, staring sightlessly at the ceiling? Dead? He felt tears come to his eyes.

"Michael?" Lincoln barked again. "Answer me!"

Suddenly, Michael felt this aching need to know Lincoln was alive. A stupid thing, and something he needed desperately. Even though Lincoln was talking, was yelling at him. He needed more.

He took the few steps between them and crashed into Lincoln. He heard Lincoln let out an undignified, "Ooof!" as Michael wrapped his arms around him.

"Michael—" Lincoln said.

"Please, don't die," Michael begged. "Please!" He started crying now, clinging to Lincoln. He could feel Lincoln's hand smashed between them.

"I'm not gonna die, Mike," Lincoln said. His voice was muffled. Michael just held onto him tighter, unable to let his fear go.

He felt his brother's ribs expand with a sigh, and then Lincoln worked his arm out from between them and wrapped it around Michael's back. "I'm not gonna die, Michael," he repeated into Michael's hair. "It's just a…a little cut."

"You're still bleeding," Michael protested, not letting go. "If it all ends up on the floor—"

"Michael," Lincoln said calmly. "It's not."

"Don't die," Michael begged hysterically. His brother's words were not penetrating his haze. All he could think about was his foster father, the puddle of blood, those dead eyes, Lincoln, Lincoln bleeding, and that strange man. He shuddered. "Please!"

He didn't know how long he pleaded with his brother not to die, to stop bleeding, but suddenly, he felt another set of hands on his shoulders. "Michael, let go," he heard. Veronica.

"No," he said. "Don't let him die, Vee."

"Let me look at him," she said. "Please, Michael!" She sounded panicked.

It was Lincoln who pushed him away, hard enough that he fell back on his hands on the floor. Veronica glared at him, even as she pushed aside the towel. "Don't push him like that," she said, looking at the wound on his head. Michael couldn't see anything from his place on the floor. His palms stung; rug burn, he knew.

"He's been like that for fifteen minutes, Vee," Lincoln replied. "He's going crazy."

"He's scared. Shit, Lincoln, what did you do to yourself? This cut's still bleeding like this after—" Veronica cut herself off and looked over her shoulder at Michael. "Go get me another towel, Michael, please."

Michael scrambled to his feet and ran to get another towel from the bathroom, glad he could do something, anything, to help. He knew, also, that she wanted to talk to Lincoln without him there to hear, but he didn't care. That towel was soaked with blood; they needed another one.

"A bottle?" he heard Veronica say as he came back into the room. He handed her the towel, which she quickly pressed against his head, tossing the other one into the kitchen. It landed on the tiles with a wet slapping noise. Michael saw the slightest hint of the gash during the exchange, and it made his stomach flip.

"Broken," Lincoln replied.

"It's a really big gash, Lincoln. I think it needs stitches. Michael, you have to call 911."

"NO!" Lincoln barked.

"He has to, Lincoln! You're losing blood, still! Are you feeling dizzy or anything?" Veronica looked torn between concern and frustration.

Michael understood immediately. The pot. Lincoln was high, and if he went to the hospital, they could test him, and at the very least, he could get in trouble for that. Lincoln had explained that to him. "I can't," he agreed softly.

"What? Michael, your brother is bleeding! Are both of you crazy?" She looked between them, and threw up her free hand. "Lincoln, hold this against your head."

Lincoln's hand was already clutching the towel to his ear. Veronica turned and stormed out of the apartment.

"Vee, where are you going?" Lincoln shouted.

"To save your crazy ass!" she replied. The door slammed shut behind her.

"Fuck!" Lincoln yelled, leaping to his feet. He reeled, and caught himself against the wall, leaving another smear of blood. Michael's brain flashed through multiple other pictures.

"No, Linc!" he cried. "Sit! Please sit down!"

Lincoln actually sat back down, and that, more than anything, scared Michael. Since when did Lincoln listen to anything Michael asked? "Go tell her why," Lincoln said, sounding defeated.

Michael blinked. "But—" he protested.

"Now, Mike," Lincoln said. He clutched the towel to the gash behind his ear.

After a moment, Michael nodded, turned away from his brother, and ran out of the apartment. He figured Veronica had gone to the payphone at the building's main entrance, and he followed.

He was correct. She was already on the phone, giving out their address.

Michael stood in front of her. "He's high, Vee," he said quietly. "They're gonna stick him in jail."

Her jaw tightened, but she shook her head. "Yes," she said into the receiver. "Um, no. He's alone right now."

"Veronica! Did you hear me?" Michael asked.

"No," Veronica replied, clearly not to Michael. "As soon as you let me, I'm going back to him. Okay. Yes. Okay. Okay. Yes."

"Veronica!" Michael cried desperately.

She hung up the phone. "Michael. Do you want him to bleed to death?"

Michael felt his body stiffen. Veronica's shoulders slumped.

"Michael, I didn't mean it. He's not going to die, okay? He'll be fine. But he needs stitches, and that's true." Veronica's eyes met his.

"I don't want to lose him, Vee," Michael said. He felt tears bubble up.

Veronica grabbed his hand. "Come on, Michael," she said. She started back down the hallway, nearly pulling Michael after her.

"If he goes to jail, they're gonna put me in foster care again," he said. "And I'm going to lose him." Veronica seemed to be ignoring him as she pulled him into the apartment.

"No," Lincoln said. "Vee, if the cops arrest me, please—you have to say Michael's your brother. Watch him, please."

Michael stared at Lincoln, and then at Veronica. Her jaw was open.

"What?" she said.

"If they arrest me…you can't let them put him back in the system. I'll never get him back. Swear to me, Vee. Please." Michael could read the desperation in Lincoln's eyes.

"Linc…"she said softly.

"Veronica," Lincoln said. "I'm begging you."

Veronica bit her lip, and looked at Michael. His chest felt tight as he waited for her response.

"Okay," she replied. "I promise."


	7. Chapter 7

"No, Lincoln. I'm done with this. I'm going to school, and I'm starting over. Without you. I'm sorry."

"But Vee—"

"No. I've had enough." He could hear her voice break. "I really am sorry."

The click of the phone was harsh in his ear. Lincoln swore and smacked the receiver hard against the countertop.

He heard Michael's voice timidly from behind him. "Linc?"

"Just be quiet, Michael," he said, not in the mood to deal with his brother right now. He dropped the receiver back into the cradle and stalked into the bathroom, relieved that he could at least be alone, here.

They had stitched him up, and then arrested him. He'd known they would; that was why he'd had Veronica promise to watch after Michael. And she had; when he'd gotten out three months later, Michael had been okay. And Vee had been getting ready to go off to school. For pre-law. He'd laughed, of course; how ironic.

He'd always known she was too good for him. He was, after all, Trouble. With a capital T. A high school drop out, in and out of Juvie, and now, apparently, starting to go in and out of the adult system as well. But she'd always been there, at least as a friend if not as a lover. And now she was just leaving him.

Lincoln didn't cry; he hadn't since Mom died. Or at least, he hadn't admitted to it. He left that kind of thing to Michael, who cried more than enough for both of them. He got angry.

He hit the wall, smashing his fist against it hard. It dented, sending pieces of drywall flying all over the place.

"Lincoln, don't!" he heard Michael cry from the other side of the door. The little fucker was standing out there? What the hell? "We'll be sharing an apartment with the guy next door if you do that!"

His brother's tone was completely serious, and Lincoln paused for a moment. "Which room?" he asked, betting that Michael would know.

"The bathroom," Michael replied, without hesitation. "The apartments mirror each other. Come on, Linc. Please!" Michael's voice was a little shaky. "Please, don't."

Lincoln shook his head. Michael. He unlocked the bathroom door and stuck his head out. Michael was sitting in the short excuse for a hallway, his arms curled around his knees with his back to the wall. He looked up at Lincoln with wide eyes.

"Please. You just got back," Michael said timidly, looking like a turtle ready to duck into his shell at the first sign of anything amiss.

Lincoln sighed. "Two weeks ago. They're not gonna send me to jail for putting a hole in the wall, Mikey," he said.

Michael's face transformed stubbornly. 'We only kept this apartment because Vee paid for it while you were in jail. You shouldn't ruin it."

Lincoln felt a new spike of anger run down his spine when Michael said Vee's name. Perhaps Michael saw it, because he pulled closer into the wall.

"Please, Linc. Please. Don't." Michael was mumbling now, not really looking at him. "I'm sorry, okay? Just don't."

Lincoln sighed and cracked his neck, then walked out of the bathroom, slamming the door anyway. It was too lightweight to even slam satisfyingly, and he grunted.

Michael's eyes popped back up to him, eyes widening again. "What did she say on the phone?" he asked.

Lincoln stared down at Michael for a long moment. He reminded himself, repeatedly: he's just a kid. Vee saved both of us. It's not his fault. Take a fucking breath.

"It's none of your fucking business," he snapped finally. "Get off the floor."

He reached for Michael, to pull him up, but Michael was already on his feet. He'd popped up with remarkable speed. His eyes were glued to Lincoln's hands. Lincoln walked past him, heading for the door.

"Where are you going, Lincoln?" Michael asked.

Lincoln patted his pocket, pulling out his smokes and a lighter. "Lock the door," he said, looking back at Michael, still standing in the hallway, with his arms wrapped around his torso. "I've got my keys, so don't open it, okay?" 

Michael's face shifted. "You're not telling me where you're going," he said, with that tone. Lincoln hated that tone, that "Michael-is-too-damn-smart-for-his-own-good" tone. He was uncanny. Somehow, he knew.

Lincoln clenched his teeth. "Relax, Michael," he said, unlocking the door from the inside and opening it.

"Just be careful," Michael replied, approaching the door as he stepped out of the apartment. Lincoln paused for a moment, and looked down into his brother's eyes.

"Have a little faith, Mike," he said.

He shut the door then, and heard Michael turn the lock. He sighed, and lit up a cigarette, taking a deep drag.

He needed something better than this though. Some fun, maybe? He hadn't really had much fun at all since he'd gotten out of jail, with Vee mad at him, and Michael terrified he was going to disappear again or something. But tonight, he was gonna see Derrick, score just enough weed for fun, and go do something. Anything. He didn't care. And forget about Vee for awhile, and forget about the responsibility of Michael, and all that.

He started for the stairwell.

He'd always loved this place. A crappy little restaurant and bar mixed together, heavy on the bar, Lincoln had been showing up here since he'd discovered its existence during his first run from a foster home, at the age of fifteen. That place hadn't been too far from here…and just like tonight, he'd slipped into the darkness of the restaurant and sat at the bar.

Even then, they hadn't asked him for ID. He'd always thought it was because of his physical size—generally, they just didn't make fifteen year olds with shoulders like his—but as he nursed his first beer, looking around at the other people, he decided they probably just didn't give a flying fuck, one way or the other. Because that girl sitting down at the other end of the bar, flirting with an obviously drunken patron, didn't look any older than Lincoln himself.

And she was pretty damn good-looking too. Nice body, blond hair…he didn't usually go for blondes; he liked his women darker, but hell, she had a great ass at least.

She looked up, as if she sensed his eyes on her. He didn't bother to look away. She smiled.

Lincoln nodded at her and took another drink of his beer.

Then he got a surprise. She patted the drunk guy on the arm and grabbed his empty mug and went behind the bar, disappearing.

So she worked here, then? That explained a little bit, at least. He knew you only had to be nineteen to serve, and twenty one to drink. He chuckled to himself as he took another drink. He was close enough, damn it. As much responsibility as he had? How many eighteen year olds had a fucking ten year old to take care of? He was pretty sure that alone made him plenty old enough to drink.

Soon enough, Mike would be eleven. In September. Lincoln shook his head. He was not gonna think about his fucking brother tonight. He took out his pack of smokes and lit one up.

"Want another?" a cheerful voice asked him from behind the bar. He turned to see the blond from earlier.

He glanced down at his drink; nearly gone. "Sure," he said, tossing the rest of it back. "What's your name?"

"Lisa," she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she turned to get him another beer. He watched her; he knew she knew he was watching her curves move in those jeans, and he appreciated that she let him enjoy the view. "How 'bout you, stud? You're a lot better looking than the average Joe who comes through here." She spun back around, putting the beer down in front of him, then propped her head on her elbows, giving him a good look down her shirt.

He laughed and looked down the bar. That was true enough; most of the patrons were at least in their late forties. "Lincoln," he said. He thought about the slight amount of money he had, and decided to go for it. "Can I buy you a drink?"

She grinned at him. "Not on the job," she said. "Maybe…some other time?" Her hand touched his.

Ah, hell. "Sure," Lincoln said.

"Hey, Lisa!" an older man slurred from farther down the bar. "Need 'nother!"

"I'm cutting you off, Harry!" she called back. "You still need to get home tonight!"

The man cursed and gestured at her. "Need 'nother!" he repeated loudly.

She smiled at him apologetically, and then she was gone, back to work.

He watched her walk away.

He paid his tab, and Lisa smiled at him again. "Hey. If you meant it…?"

Lincoln looked at her. "Sure," he said.

She scribbled something on a piece of paper. "Go ahead and call, then," she replied, and pressed the paper in his hand.

Then she was back to getting drinks for other customers. Lincoln looked down at the piece of paper in his hand.

Seven numbers, and a name. Lisa. He put it in his wallet, and headed out the door.

"Who's Lisa?" Michael asked.

"What?" Lincoln said.

"Who's Lisa?" Michael repeated.

"Why?" Lincoln asked, turning from the pot of coffee he was attempting to make and facing his younger brother where he sat at the kitchen table.

Michael squirmed a little in his chair. Lincoln raised his eyebrows.

"Michael?" he said, half question, half warning.

"I was just wondering," Michael said.

"Where did the name come from, Michael?" Lincoln demanded. Michael was being purposely dense again, a new and rather irritating trait he'd picked up sometime during his stay with Veronica.

"Um," Michael replied, nervously tapping his fingers against the tabletop. "Never mind. I don't care." He pushed his chair away from the table.

"I do," Lincoln replied. "Were you digging through my stuff?" He crossed his arms over his chest, watching Michael.

"No," Michael denied. "Uh-uh. I…" He looked around, seeming frantic to Lincoln.

"Michael," Lincoln said.

"The name is from your wallet," Michael replied finally, in a small voice.

"Obviously," Lincoln replied, thinking of how he'd stashed Lisa's number in there a mere two nights ago. "What were you doing in my wallet?"

"I needed money to do laundry," Michael said.

Lincoln studied his brother. He shook his head. "Don't lie to me," he said.

"I'm not!" Michael said. His voice squeaked on 'not.'

"You've never been a very good liar, Michael Scofield," Lincoln said. "Really. What were you doing in my wallet?" He wasn't really angry at Michael, but he did want to know.

Michael stared down stubbornly at his bowl of cereal, which was getting soggy.

"Really?" Lincoln said, as if Michael had said something. "You're gonna pull that?"

"I don't have to tell you if I don't want to," Michael replied after a moment.

"And you don't want to, I'm assuming?" Lincoln said, torn between amusement and irritation.

"I don't want to," Michael confirmed.

Lincoln looked at him for a long second. "Well, too bad. You don't get to dig around in my fucking wallet and not tell me why. So spit it out, Michael."

Michael pursed his lips, his grip tightening around his spoon. He shook his head.

Lincoln walked up to the opposite side of the table and plunked his hands down on the tabletop. Michael's head shot up immediately, his blue eyes widening.

"What were you doing?" Lincoln asked.

Michael's eyes were all over the place. It made Lincoln dizzy, trying to follow his brother's path of sight. Then, they froze on Lincoln's hands, pressing into the tabletop.

"You going to…punish me, if I don't tell you?" Michael asked.

His voice was small, and something about it made Lincoln's stomach twist. He felt his shoulders sag.

"Michael, come on, man. I just want to know why the hell you were going through my wallet. Did you need money? Was it something else? Just tell me, alright? I won't get mad at you, okay?" He could hear his own voice become softer and more placating, to match his brother's odd tone. He shifted his weight over one hand and pulled out a chair with the other, sitting down in it.

Michael's eyes rose to his face. "You will," he replied with certainty.

"I'll try not to," Lincoln replied. "Come on, man." Michael was really starting to freak him out here.

Michael sighed. "I just…you were gone late, and I thought you'd…I just wanted…I don't want you to go to jail again, Linc."

If it hadn't been for the complete, honest, earnestness in Michael's eyes, Lincoln would have gotten mad. But unfortunately, Lincoln understood Michael's thoughts.

"You thought I was selling again?" he asked. Michael nodded, still watching him.

"I'm not, okay?" Lincoln said.

"I smelled it on you when you came in," Michael said quietly.

Lincoln sighed. "I didn't say I hadn't used it; I had. But I'm not selling it anymore." Part of him couldn't believe he was defending himself to his ten year old brother, the other part of him just thought: Michael.

"That's not legal either," Michael said.

"They won't send me to jail for it," Lincoln said with certainty. "Okay?"

He studied Michael, who nodded after a moment. "But…you still shouldn't do it," Michael said.

Now Lincoln did roll his eyes. "Finish your damn breakfast," he said. "You're gonna be late for school." He got up and returned to his coffee pot, pouring in the water and flipping the switch.

"Linc?" he heard Michael say as he leaned against the counter, waiting for his coffee to start brewing.

"Yeah, Mike?" Lincoln replied.

"Who's Lisa?"

Lincoln rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Don't worry about it, Michael," he said.

"Is Lisa there?" Lincoln asked, jingling the quarters in his pocket, and cursing the fact that they still didn't have a phone in their fucking apartment.

"This is Lisa," she said.

"Hey," he said, leaning against the wall. "This is Lincoln. You gave me your number the other day? Said I could buy you a drink when you weren't working?"

"I remember you," she said, and he heard a smile in her voice. "Still up for that?"

"Yeah," Lincoln replied. "You?" 

"You bet," she said.

This was the difficult part. "So…I don't have a car. Do you want to meet somewhere?" He knew this could be the deal-breaker, and he was hoping it wouldn't be.

She laughed. "I've got a shitty little hatchback," she said. "You want me to pick you up?"

"Anytime," Lincoln replied, smirking slightly.

"Let me have your address," she replied.

And this time, he actually remembered it.

They'd actually gotten lunch, at a diner. "I eat here all the time," she said, leading the way inside.

"I've been here a couple of times," Lincoln replied. He didn't mention exactly what he'd been doing here; it hadn't been eating…more in the way of sales. It wasn't exactly the best part of town.

"Food's pretty good," she said. "Among other things." She raised an eyebrow, a subtle question. He nodded.

"So I've heard," he replied.

They sat at a booth in the corner. "Do you have a last name, Lincoln?" Lisa asked.

"Burrows," he replied. "You?" he asked.

"Rix," she said.

He extended his hand, and she shook it. Then she started to laugh.

"What?" Lincoln asked, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

"I just realized that I've gotten a good twenty minutes into a date without knowing your last name," she said, still laughing.

A date. Hmm. Lincoln chuckled too. "Hey, it could be worse," he said.

"Yeah? How?" she asked.

"We could have woken up tomorrow morning and looked at each other, and said, "Hey, do you have a last name?"

Her mouth dropped open. "That's not my style!" she protested.

"It's happened," Lincoln replied, shrugging. "Hell, I've asked, "Hey, do you have a name?"

"You're a bad boy, huh, Lincoln Burrows?" Lisa asked, talking a sip out of her Coke.

Lincoln just laughed.

He liked Lisa. She wasn't Veronica; no one was like Veronica. But she was fun, and pretty, and she had a nice body, and that was good enough, he figured. Maybe he didn't exactly love her, but he liked her well enough. And she was good in bed; that didn't hurt anything. So they stayed together. Dated. And he didn't think much about Vee anymore.

They never fucked at Lincoln's apartment. There was no room. It was dirty. There was Michael. They always went to her apartment, an equally small, if unshared, studio that was only fifteen minutes away by the EL, less if you had a car and traffic wasn't bad.

She stretched out next to him, both of them still breathing heavy. Her head lolled onto his chest.

"You're damn good at this, Lincoln," she said.

"You're not too bad yourself," he replied, lazily stroking her arm.

"Think you'll be up for another round before work?" she asked.

Lincoln groaned good-naturedly. "Unfortunately, I still have an eight hour shift ahead of me."

"As do I," she replied, sighing. She pushed herself into a sitting position, and Lincoln forced himself to sit up as well. He watched her stand.

"I'm gonna take a shower," she said. "You want to join me?"

Lincoln laughed. "If you insist," he replied.

"Oh," she replied, grinning back. "I insist." And she beckoned at him with her finger before disappearing around the corner into her bathroom.

He walked into his apartment, his shoulders sagging. Michael was awake, sitting at the kitchen table, doing homework.

"Why are you still awake?" Lincoln asked.

"Homework," Michael replied. He scribbled something on his paper, then looked up at Lincoln. His eyes widened. "What happened?"

Lincoln closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Michael always noticed. Always. "What do you mean?" he asked anyway, playing for some time.

"You don't look very good," Michael said. "You look stressed."

"I'm fine," Lincoln said. He walked into the kitchen and looked into the fridge, hoping against hope there might be a beer in there, to take the edge off. There wasn't; he hadn't bought any for awhile now.

"Are you and Lisa okay?" Michael asked. Again, Lincoln was surprised. How did Michael always do that?

"We're fine," Lincoln said. Even he could hear the edge in his voice. He forced himself to soften it. "Lisa and I are great, Mike. It's not that." _Exactly._

"Well…what is it, then? Can I do anything?" Michael asked quietly. Lincoln turned and looked at him.

Michael, who had recently turned eleven. Who was sincere in his query; it was obvious in his eyes. He wasn't trying to be a pain in the ass. And this wasn't his fault. So Lincoln took a deep breath and forced himself not to snap at his brother, not to yell, or hit something, or throw something. He slowly shook his head instead.

"Nope," he said. "I'm going to bed."

He walked out of the kitchen and kicked off his shoes, then started pulling off his shirt. He heard Michael sigh, lightly.

Lincoln kicked out of his jeans and left them in a heap on the floor before getting into bed and pulling the covers over his head to block out the lights. "Can you at least turn out the lights when you're done with your homework?" he said to Michael.

He could hear Michael moving around, but there was no reply. Figures. He knew his brother was still afraid of the dark, for whatever reason. It didn't make any sense to Lincoln, but…he shut his eyes. Whatever.

He stayed still, curled on his side, trying to sleep, but Lisa's words kept echoing through his mind. It couldn't be true…and yet, it was. She'd been sure. She'd been excited. Scared, but excited too.

Lincoln…he was just afraid. How the hell was this going to work? He wasn't ready for this, not at all. Christ, he was only eighteen.

Suddenly, he heard the click of the light switch, and mere moments later, felt Michael crawl into bed next to him.

"You sure you're okay?" Michael whispered. Lincoln opened his eyes and pulled the sheet off his face; he really had turned off the lights, he noted with surprise.

"It's not something you can fix, Mike," Lincoln said.

"I can try," Michael replied.

The images that came to Lincoln's mind were both disgusting and absurd. He snorted.

"Sorry, bud," he said.

He heard Michael sigh again, and then felt Michael's hand pat his shoulder. "Well, if I can help, you'll let me, right?" Michael asked.

"Sure," Lincoln said after a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Michael nod, and then settle deeper into the covers to try to go to sleep.

Lincoln tried to let his muscles relax. He might not be ready to be a father, he thought, but it was too damn late for that. And Michael…well, Michael would make a damn good uncle. Even at eleven.

Lincoln sighed again. He really knew how to fuck things up for everyone around him, didn't he?

Now the question was, how was he going to tell Michael?


	8. Chapter 8

"A couch?" Michael said skeptically, looking around their tiny apartment.

"We'll cram it in that corner. It'll be fine," Lincoln said, gesturing at the small space between the mattress and the table. Michael eyed it.

"I suppose," he said.

"Come on. Lisa's letting me borrow her car, so we don't have to try to carry it all the way from Goodwill."

Lincoln sounded too cheerful, and that made Michael nervous. A couch wasn't something to be overly cheerful about. It was just a piece of furniture. Useful, yes, but not something to get overjoyed about. He took another glance at his brother's eyes, but they were clear, not glassy. Was he really that excited about a couch?

"There's plenty of room," Lincoln said. "We could even get a coffee table to go with it."

"It's not like we have guests or something," Michael said.

"What about Lisa?" Lincoln asked.

"Lisa's not a guest. She's your girlfriend," Michael replied. He watched Lincoln lock the door behind them as they left the apartment, and then started down the stairs.

"She doesn't live here, does she? So she's a guest," Lincoln replied. He gestured to his left, towards the small parking lot. "Get in the car."

"How come she let you borrow it?" Michael asked.

"She's at work," Lincoln said, unlocking the door and climbing inside. He was too tall, and Michael smothered a giggle as he watched his brother fold his enormous frame to fit into Lisa's rather petite car. "I'm going to pick her up later."

Michael pulled his seatbelt across his lap. "Okay," he said.

Lincoln was a pretty good driver; Michael wondered how he'd learned to drive so well, considering… "How'd you get your license?" he asked.

"My what?" Lincoln replied, hitting the turn signal.

"Your driver's license?" Michael asked. "I mean…weren't you in juvie when you were sixteen?"

Lincoln snorted. "You don't need a license to drive a car," he said.

Michael felt his own eyes widen, and he turned to Lincoln. "You don't have a license? Lincoln, that's illegal! Lincoln!" He tugged at his seatbelt nervously.

"Relax, Mike," Lincoln said.

"You're gonna get arrested!" Michael said. He could hear his voice rising in panic. "Linc, please!"

Lincoln turned and looked at him for a second. "Relax, Mike. I'm just kidding, okay?"

Lincoln looked back at the road, and Michael studied his profile. "I don't believe you," he said.

Lincoln groaned. "Jesus Christ, Michael. I'm just kidding, okay?"

"You aren't!" Michael said.

"Yeah, I am," Lincoln said. "When we get there, I'll prove it, alright?"

Michael frowned. "You better not be lying," he said.

"Or what?" Lincoln challenged good-naturedly. "You gonna call the cops on me?"

"Not funny," Michael replied flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. Lincoln knew he wouldn't do that.

"Lighten up, Michael," Lincoln said, taking a sharp right into the parking lot of the Goodwill. "You act like such an old man sometimes."

Lincoln pulled into a parking spot, sparing Michael the need to respond. He couldn't think of a response that wouldn't make Lincoln want to smack him anyway, so it was probably for the best.

They both got out of the car, and Lincoln locked it. "Okay," he said. "Let's find a couch."

"A small one," Michael said. "We might need some other stuff later."

Lincoln shot him a look. "Like what?" he asked.

That look…it was worried. Michael could see something there. He wondered what Lincoln wasn't telling him. "I don't know," Michael replied. "Something."

He purposefully entered the store ahead of Lincoln, feeling his brother's eyes on his back. He'd hit something there, with his random comment; he could feel it. Now the question was…what was it?

"Furniture's over there," Lincoln said.

"I know," Michael replied, already making his way through the racks of clothing, crammed too close together to comfortably look through them.

There were three couches. Michael stood in front of them, silently debating their merits.

"Damn, that thing is fucking ugly," Lincoln said, pointing at a couch that was a lurid shade of avocado. Michael nodded his agreement.

"It's small, though," he said. "And this one is a hide-a-way, so it's going to weigh a lot more."

"We could use a hide-a-way," Lincoln said. "You could have your own bed then."

Michael shrugged. "Yeah, but I could also just sleep on the couch," he replied. "I don't think that you and I are going to be able to get the hide-a-way up the stairs. Unless Lisa can help."

Lincoln shook his head. "Lisa can't help," he replied.

"Why not?" Michael asked.

Lincoln was quiet for a moment. "She's at work," he said finally. "We leave it strapped to the top of the car, and someone's gonna steal it."

Michael nodded slowly. That made sense, he supposed.

"So, looks like the choice is ugly green or ugly orange flowers," Lincoln said cheerfully. "Which one do you want?"

Michael shrugged. "I don't care," he said.

Lincoln walked closer to the couches, to check the prices, Michael assumed. He watched Lincoln.

"Guess we're going with green," Lincoln said, straightening and turning. Michael saw his eyes pause on something behind him, and flicker slightly, before popping back to Michael's own. Michael turned.

Behind him was more furniture. A dilapidated armchair, a stepping stool, a rocking chair, a desk chair, and a high chair.

Michael filed that information away in his brain. He turned back to Lincoln.

"What?" Lincoln asked, looking self-conscious. Michael shook his head.

"Come on. Let's see if someone will help us load it up onto the car, at least," he suggested.

Michael's arms were shaking. "Come on, Mike. We're almost there," Lincoln said. He was huffing and puffing from bearing most of the weight of the couch up the stairs, but now they were in the hallway and about halfway to their apartment.

"Can we put it down for a second?" Michael pleaded. "Please? My arms are gonna fall off!"

"Yeah. Alright," Lincoln said.

The couch landed with a thump against the floor, and Michael flopped down into it. "Ugh," he groaned, wiping his arm across his sweaty forehead. "See? It was a good thing not to get the hide-a-way."

Lincoln sat too. "Yeah. Okay," he replied.

They sat together without speaking, the only noise that of their breathing as it returned to normal. Finally, Lincoln stood up. "Okay," he said. "Let's get this fucking monster of a couch into the apartment."

Michael stood too, and bent, grabbing the bottom of the couch. "One, two, three," he counted, and they lifted it again, continuing down the long hallway.

A door slammed behind Michael, and he flinched, unable to see who had caused the noise. He heard a loud wail; a child? It seemed like too strong of a sound.

"You be quiet and you can come back inside," he heard an unfamiliar, angry voice say. The child kept screaming.

"Shit," Lincoln said. "What the hell?"

"Put down the couch," Michael said, setting down his end. He heard Lincoln curse again as he did so, but he turned.

Hannah was standing in the hallway, crying her head off. She was dressed in dirty pajamas, and huge tears were rolling down her face. Michael hurried over to the little girl, who he knew wasn't quite two years old.

"Hannah?" he whispered. The child kept screaming, ignoring him. Well, it figured. She probably didn't remember him, just because he'd seen her with Melinda in the laundry room a few dozen times. "Hannah, come here, honey." That was Vee's word, honey, but it seemed to work; the girl, still sobbing, took a couple steps towards Michael's arms.

"Michael, what the fuck are you doing?" Lincoln asked in an undertone, "You can't just steal someone else's kid!"

Michael picked up the little girl, who buried her tear-and-snot covered face in his shoulder, and turned to face Linc. "I can so, if the babysitter locks her out in the hallway," he replied. "She's just a baby, Lincoln."

The little girl continued to scream, and something in Lincoln's face changed. Suddenly, the billions of tiny clues snapped together for Michael. The most recent. Why Lisa couldn't help them with the couch. Why Lincoln had been so stressed out lately. The high chair. And that look on his face right now, as he watched Michael holding onto this little girl. Oh boy.

"Lisa's pregnant?" he asked.

Lincoln's jaw dropped open. "Jesus fucking Christ, Michael," he said, after a moment. He sounded as though he'd been punched in the stomach.

Well, that was about all the confirmation Michael needed.

Eventually, they got the couch into the house, and the worn out toddler asleep on their mattress. That had been Michael's idea. He had a feeling that if Lincoln hadn't been shocked speechless, it wouldn't have happened, but Lincoln looked dazed, even now.

"How the fuck did you figure that out, Michael?" Lincoln asked him, sitting on the couch, which had been crammed rather haphazardly in the corner.

"Shh. You're gonna wake Hannah," Michael said.

The look Lincoln gave him was close to toxic. "Michael…" Lincoln said.

"I read a lot," Michael replied.

"You just happened to read somewhere that Lisa was pregnant with my kid?" Lincoln asked sarcastically. "Or you used your Gypsy intuition?"

"It was logic," Michael replied. The clues, small as they were, had been there. He'd read somewhere that intuition was just logically coming from point A to point B without knowing how you got there; Michael had a ton of little tiny clues, and he'd noticed them all. Pure logic, no intuition involved.

"You're in…what, fifth grade?" Lincoln asked. Michael nodded. "You aren't even supposed to know how babies are made yet, Michael!"

"Uh, I think I learned that one a long time ago," Michael said. "Plus, like I said. I read a lot."

Lincoln just shook his head. He stood up and walked past Michael and into the kitchen. Michael could hear him getting things together to make a pot of coffee.

Michael crossed from his place leaning against the wall to the couch and sat down, looking at the little girl curled in the center of their bed. She had her thumb stuck in her mouth, and her pale hair hung straggly all over her face.

"What do you think about it, then?" Lincoln asked him from the kitchen.

Michael sighed, still looking at the toddler.

"So…I'm going to be an uncle," he said. "That's pretty cool. What about you and Lisa? What do you think?"

He heard Lincoln's footsteps, and he looked up. Lincoln looked at him, and gave him a grim half-smile.

"Lisa's excited," he said. "Nervous, but excited." Lincoln tapped his fingers against his thigh a few times.

"And you?" Michael asked, waiting.

"Me?" Lincoln said. He laughed lowly. "I don't know."

He went back into the kitchen. Michael heard him pour coffee into a mug, and then return into the living room. He sat down on the couch, on the opposite end.

"Scared?" Michael asked, looking at his brother.

"I'm not scared," Lincoln said scornfully. "Of a fucking kid?"

He was scared. That surprised Michael. He'd always thought that Lincoln wasn't afraid of anything. Lincoln was the tough one, the strong one. He was never afraid. Except…maybe now, he was. A little, at least.

"I'd be scared, if it was my kid," Michael said. Lincoln's eyes met his for a moment.

"We'll be fine," Lincoln said. He didn't sound too sure to Michael though, and Michael wondered.

Suddenly, there was a hurried knock on their door, and the strange little spell was broken. Lincoln hauled himself to his feet to get it. "Bet it's the kid's babysitter," he said.

It was.

"So, you heard the news, huh, Michael?" Lisa asked, sitting on their couch.

Michael nodded. "Yep," he said. "I heard." He looked at her stomach. "How long have you been pregnant?"

"9 weeks," Lisa replied, touching her stomach. It didn't look any different, even to Michael's extremely discerning eye.

"When are you going to look like you're having a baby?" Michael asked.

"Michael, give her a break!" Lincoln said, handing Lisa a can of soda. "She just got here, huh?"

"I'm just curious," Michael said, defending himself.

"Yeah, well, knock it off," Lincoln replied. "You're gonna scare her off."

But watching Lisa watch Lincoln, Michael didn't think that was true.

When they came through the apartment door, she was giggling, and Lincoln was laughing too, even as he tried to make shushing noises. Michael sat up from where he'd been feigning sleep on the couch.

"I'm awake," he said.

They both stared for a second, and then burst out laughing. Lisa was holding her extremely pregnant belly, looking like she might tip over at any moment.

"Hey Mike," Lincoln said. He sounded way too cheerful.

"Are you drunk?" Michael asked.

"No!" Lisa said. She giggled again. "Well, I'm not, at least. Lincoln might be."

"I'm not drunk," Lincoln defended. His eyes were glassy.

Michael felt an awful wave of horror sweeping over him. "Were you drinking?" he asked her, ignoring his brother completely for the moment.

"Think smoking," she replied, giggling again. "I haven't had a drop." She waddled over to the couch and sat down heavily. Michael stared at her belly, wondering what that stuff was doing to the baby inside there. It couldn't possibly be good for it.

"Oh, relax, Michael," Lincoln said. "You're too uptight." He wandered into the kitchen. Michael heard the fridge opening, and the clink of bottles.

Lincoln returned to the living room with a bottle of beer. He took a gulp. "You want one, Lisa?" he asked.

"Are you retarded?" Michael yelled, jumping up from the couch. Lincoln's stare turned near-sober; he could feel Lisa's eyes on his back. "She's pregnant! You're gonna hurt the baby!"

"Excuse me?" Lincoln said. His voice was suddenly dark.

Michael didn't care, for once. That baby in there was his niece or nephew, and he was going to take care of it. "You think it's smart to be drinking and smoking pot when you're pregnant?" he yelled again, this time turning to face Lisa. She didn't react. But Lincoln did.

"Don't talk to her like that, or you're gonna regret it, Michael" he said harshly.

"She's being stupid!" Michael protested. "You have to know that's bad for the baby!" he said, turning back to Lisa. She didn't seem overly concerned, and that made Michael even angrier. "Even I know that!"

Lincoln slammed the bottle of beer on the countertop. "You just know everything, huh, Michael?" he said, taking a step towards him. Michael turned back to Lincoln and forced himself to stay put, to stand his ground. "It's all clear to you. You could handle this all, no sweat, right? A job, and a girlfriend, a kid brother who knows everything, and a baby coming? Because you're the fucking smartest person in the world, huh?" He got louder with each step, until he was right in Michael's face, grabbing Michael's shirt.

"I'm obviously smarter than either of you!" Michael shot back angrily. "Are you trying to—"

He never got to finish the sentence, because Lincoln's hand darted out and caught his face in a hard slap. It sent him reeling backwards into the couch. He heard Lisa cry out.

His face stung, and so did his back, where it had slammed against the edge of the couch. Michael was stunned, but not so much so that he didn't brace himself for the next blow. Nothing happened. He looked up to see Lincoln's hand, still raised as if to hit him again, and his angry eyes. They stared at each other, caught in an furious stand-off.

"Michael?" he heard Lisa say quietly. He spared a glance for her; her eyes were big. He looked back at Lincoln, who didn't say anything. He got to his feet and stood still, waiting. Would he hit him again?

"Get out of here," Lincoln said roughly, dropping his hand.

To where? Michael didn't even know where he could go, not at this time of night, and not with Veronica off at school. He stayed still, frozen.

Lincoln's body language changed again, and Michael could tell that Lincoln was losing it. Completely.

"Go, Michael! Or do you _want_ me to beat the hell out of you?" Lincoln yelled, fumbling for his belt buckle. "Because I fucking will!"

That sent Michael into motion. He bolted past Lincoln, hearing Lisa say, "Lincoln, don't," as he fled out the door and ran blindly down the hallway, Lincoln's anger echoing in his ears.

He didn't stop running until he hit the laundry room. He found a small niche between the last dryer and the wall and squeezed in there. And only then did he allow himself to process what had just happened.

Lincoln had slapped him. Had threatened him…had kicked him out. He hated him. And Michael deserved it. Why had he been so stupid? Why had he said those things? He started to shake, uncontrollable tremors that started at his hands and quickly made their way all over his body. The tears started next, silently rolling down his cheeks. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

He'd just been trying to help. But he'd been stupid about it. He should have known better, than to yell at them. He'd forgotten, for just a moment, that Lincoln was a grown-up. That he could hit like a grown-up. But when his brother's hand had connected with his face, when those hands had went to his belt, Michael had remembered that Lincoln was going to be a dad now. And that changed things.

He sniffed hard and wiped his eyes. He hoped that the baby was okay, that it hadn't been harmed by what had just happened. He'd never forgive himself if something happened to the baby because of what he'd done.

He really was sorry. He wondered if Lincoln would believe him, would forgive him. He curled tighter around himself and let his head rest on his knees. He could sleep here tonight. Maybe tomorrow, Lincoln would forgive him enough that he could go back home. And Lisa, too, he thought belatedly. Because she was important too. He sighed.

He really was sorry. And that was his last thought as he finally drifted off to sleep.

"Fucking hell! Michael! Michael!"

He woke up immediately, his entire body one huge cramp. Lincoln was yelling his name. Why was Lincoln yelling his name? He stayed still, unsure of whether to respond or to stay hidden and quiet in his spot behind the dryer.

"Michael? Jesus Christ, where the hell are you? Can you hear me?" Lincoln asked.

Michael was pretty sure the whole building could hear him. From the one small window in the laundry room, it was daytime, at least. So he'd spent the whole night there.

"Please, Michael!"

The "Please!" was what changed his mind. Lincoln said please so rarely that it was worth noting. "Linc?" he called.

"Oh thank God. Michael, get out here!"

"Why?" Michael asked. His brother didn't sound angry anymore, but Michael didn't want to risk it. He would keep hiding if Lincoln was still mad at him.

"Lisa's started having contractions! We have to get to the hospital! Get your ass out here!" Now Lincoln's voice was closer. "Where the fuck are you, anyway?"

He didn't hear any anger, just excitement and anxiety. That was a good sign, he decided. Michael started to crawl out of his hiding place, only to feel Lincoln's hand wrap around his wrist and pull him to his feet. He yelped, startled.

"Come on!" Lincoln said. Michael looked at his brother's face, a mix of fear and excitement. All of the anger, as well as the intoxication, of earlier was gone. He must have slept a long time. "We have to go!"

Lincoln didn't release his arm, half-dragging him out of the laundry room and down the hall. "Where's Lisa?" Michael asked breathlessly, running after Lincoln.

"She's in the car already," Lincoln replied. "Come on. Go! Go!" He gave Michael a push towards the stairs.

Michael clambered into the backseat of the car. Lisa was in the passenger seat, holding her belly. "Lincoln!" she called out the open door. "Come on!"

"I'm coming!" he said, contorting himself to get into the car. Michael pulled on his seatbelt as Lincoln stepped on the gas.

"Seatbelt!" Michael said.

"Michael!" Lincoln groaned.

"She's having a baby!" Michael replied. "She needs a seatbelt!"

"Let's not do this twice in twenty-four hours," Lisa said, pulling a seatbelt over her enormous belly. "Put on your fucking seatbelt, Lincoln."

Lincoln cursed and yanked it over his lap. "Happy?" he asked Michael as he pulled across two lanes of traffic.

"If you're gonna drive like James Bond, we're gonna need them," Michael replied.

"Ahh! Fuck, it hurts!" Lisa cried, gritting her teeth. Her hands clenched into tight fists. Michael watched in fascination. Lincoln's knuckles on the steering wheel turned almost as white as Lisa's. He could see sweat beading on Lisa's forehead. Then, suddenly, she sighed and relaxed.

"You okay?" Lincoln asked her distractedly, running a stop sign.

"They better give me some fucking drugs," she said. "This hurts!"

"We're almost there," Michael said, looking at the landmarks. "You have to turn left here."

"I've lived here longer than you, Michael," Lincoln said, turning sharply. Someone honked, and Lincoln flipped him off. "Christ!"

They pulled into the emergency room parking. Lincoln's parking was awful, but Michael held his tongue, figuring he'd pressed his luck enough in the last day or so. Lincoln hauled himself out of the car and ran around to help Lisa out. Michael crawled out after them and locked the car, figuring they would forget in the melee.

Once inside the hospital, the chaos became too much for him. There were hundreds of people, screaming, crying, bleeding…he turned away from the blood. He couldn't handle this.

He found Lincoln and Lisa in the chaos by merit of Lincoln's enormous height and shoulders. He was filling out paperwork on a clipboard as a nurse helped Lisa into a wheelchair. So they were fine. That was good. They were in capable hands.

He needed a second. A minute. Some time. Desperately, he searched the surroundings with his eyes, looking for somewhere that would be quiet, even for a moment.

His eyes lit on a couple of vending machines. More to the point, a small space between them. He looked at Lincoln and Lisa again; they'd obviously forgotten about his existence. Well, good. He'd find them later.

He quickly went over to the machines and carefully wormed his way between them. They hummed loudly, radiating heat. He didn't mind; it helped block out the noise. There wasn't a lot of space there, and there was a lot of dust, but he was alone. He could collect himself.

He just needed a minute.

In the end, he found his way up to the maternity ward, which was much quieter than the E.R. had been. It didn't take him long to find Lisa's room—between her cursing and Lincoln's, he could find them easily from the elevator. He'd stuck his head in just long enough for Lincoln to tell him to "get the fuck out of here!" which he did obligingly. The whole process looked miserable to him.

He eventually found a lounge with a couch in it. There were magazines, and a television, but after an hour or so, he'd made his way through all the interesting magazines: the architectural, sports, and science magazines. He'd left the "Good Housekeeping" ones alone. And then, Michael decided to sleep. That, he knew, was a fool-proof way to pass the time.

So he wasn't sure how much time had passed when he felt someone else's presence in the lounge. "Excuse me?" he heard. He stirred and sat up, seeing a woman dressed in scrubs. A nursing assistant, according to her nametag. Kate. "Are you Michael Scofield?"

"Yeah," he said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The woman smiled at him.

"Come with me," she said, beckoning to him. He followed her, knowing that the baby had been born.

She led him into Lisa's room, then left. Lisa was lying in the bed, her hair sweaty and her face tired, but she looked…peaceful. She smiled at Michael.

"Linc has him," she said.

Him. A boy. A nephew. Michael couldn't help but be excited at that news. He felt his face break out in a grin.

When he'd entered the room, Lincoln's back had been to the door. Now he turned. In his arms was a bundle of blankets…and a tiny, pink face. And Lincoln's face…Michael couldn't remember ever seeing Lincoln look so proud, or in awe, or amazed.

"He's beautiful," Michael said, peering at the baby in his brother's arms. Lincoln sat down in a chair so Michael could see him better. His hair was dark. "He's got dark hair like you, Linc."

"Yeah," Lincoln said. The pride in his voice was unmistakable. "He's got Lisa's eyes."

Michael carefully touched the baby's head. "What's his name?" he asked.

It was Lisa who answered him. "Lincoln Junior," she replied. "We'll call him LJ, for short."

Michael looked at her, then Lincoln, and finally, LJ. "LJ, huh?" he said. "I think it fits him."

"Hopefully not too well," Lincoln said, with a slight chuckle. "You wanna hold him, Mike?"

Michael nodded. Lincoln stood. "Sit down," he said. "Put your arms out."

Michael did as he was told, positioning his arms like Lincoln's were. Lincoln carefully transferred the baby into his arms. He was heavier than Michael would have expected, a warm, solid weight.

"Hi, LJ," he said quietly to the baby. "It's Uncle Mike."

"Ah, shit," Lincoln said. "That's…"

"Too cute," Lisa said.

But Michael ignored them both, and held LJ in his arms. Suddenly, he knew exactly what people meant when they said they would do anything for someone. Because Michael felt that way about his family. That, he thought, was love.


	9. Chapter 9

Lincoln knew he was late, but he needed to keep this job. With Michael and the baby, life was more expensive than it used to be. He hoped Michael could handle LJ on his own for a little bit. Surely he could. He was pretty responsible, for an eleven year old. Hell, he was more responsible than Lincoln himself half the time. He was sure Lisa would agree with him.

He unlocked the apartment door. "Michael?" he called.

"Shh," Michael replied. "He just barely stopped crying."

Lincoln walked inside, to see his brother pacing back and forth in the small space between the mattress and the couch, holding LJ in his arms. He jiggled the baby slightly and held him against his shoulder.

"When did Lisa drop him off?" Lincoln asked, walking past Michael and into the kitchen.

"Her shift started at seven," Michael said. "So…half an hour before that, maybe?"

Lincoln heard the baby let out a little cry, and Michael said, "Shh…shh. It's okay. Shh." The baby's cries only got louder.

"Can you get me a bottle, please?" Michael asked. "They're in the fridge."

Lincoln opened the fridge and grabbed one of the bottles. "Here," he said, walking into the living room.

"You have to warm it up," Michael said. There was distinct exasperation in his voice.

Lincoln felt his face redden, and he turned away from his brother, going back into the kitchen to look for a pan to warm the bottle in. Shit. He was being showed up on his parenting skills by a fucking eleven year old.

"Here," Michael said. "You take him, huh?"

Lincoln crouched down. "I've got it," he said, pulling a pan from one of the cupboards.

"Just take him, please?" Michael said. Lincoln stood, put the pan on the counter, and took LJ from his brother. The baby continued to cry, and Lincoln jiggled him slightly in his arms, walking into the living room. "I've been pacing back and forth with him for almost two hours now."

"Shit. He's been crying for two hours?" 

"Almost," Michael said. "Except for that five minute break a minute ago."

Lincoln watched as Michael expertly warmed the bottle over the stove and tested it on the inside of his wrist. "Here," he said with a nod. "Take it."

Lincoln took the bottle and sat on the edge of the couch, shifting the baby in his arms so he could feed him. As soon as the nipple touched the baby's lips, he started sucking and stopped crying. Lincoln let out a sigh of relief, only to realize Michael was doing the same thing.

"You okay, Mike?" he asked.

Michael nodded. "Just tired," he said, sounding much older than eleven. "And hungry."

"Did you eat dinner?" Lincoln asked. Michael shook his head. "Why not?"

"Didn't have time," he said. "We don't have anything fast to eat, and Lisa showed up with LJ, and he wouldn't stop crying…" Michael trailed off. "I'm gonna go use the bathroom. I've had to go for an hour."

Lincoln sighed and looked down at his son, who was still drinking contentedly. This was not fair. Not fair to Michael; he was sure that LJ was being taken care of. But Michael was still just a kid. He'd turn twelve soon, but still…he needed to be able to be a kid sometimes. But Lincoln didn't have the money to get a babysitter for LJ; hell, Michael probably should have had someone watching him still. And Lisa couldn't afford it either. So Michael was their only solution. It was just going to have to be unfair. That was life, right?

Occasionally, when he was drunk and maudlin, he'd wish that life would be unfair to someone else. Just for a minute, so his family could catch their breath. But it never seemed to happen.

LJ stopped drinking, and Lincoln brought him up to his shoulder to burp him. Michael walked back into the main room just as LJ let out a satisfactory burp.

"Better?" Lincoln asked his son.

"You don't do baby talk, huh?" Michael said.

Lincoln shot him a look. "Baby talk?" he asked, getting to his feet.

"Yeah. You know." Michael made a couple of cooing noises. "Like that?"

"Nope," Lincoln said. "Don't think I have it in me." He looked around. "Where'd you put his basket?"

"In the bathroom, so I wouldn't trip on it," Michael replied. He turned and came back with a simple laundry basket, rigged up with the fixings of a cradle. It wasn't high tech, and it certainly didn't look pretty, but the baby slept in it just fine, and Lincoln figured it didn't matter. If babies in India could sleep in cradleboards or whatever the fuck, his kid could sleep in a laundry basket.

Michael put the basket on the ground in the narrow space between the mattress and the couch, and Lincoln carefully settled his son inside on his back. The baby yawned, and Michael smiled.

"He's cute," he said.

"Damn good thing, too," Lincoln said, "because otherwise, there's no way he'd make it to adulthood, with all that screaming he's been doing."

"Don't complain to me,' Michael said, sounding like an adult again. "You only got the last twenty minutes of it. Maybe."

Lincoln looked down at his brother. Despite how old he sounded, he still looked like a kid. Lincoln squeezed his shoulder.

"I'll make you some dinner," he said, turning towards the kitchen. "What do you want?"

"Not ramen noodles," Michael said vehemently. Lincoln couldn't help but laugh.

"I think we've got a few other things in the cupboard," he replied, opening them to look. "Relax, Mike. I won't let you starve."

He heard Michael plop down onto the couch as he turned the dial on the stove. "Pancakes sound okay?" Lincoln asked, pulling a box of pancake mix out of the cupboard. "We've got all the stuff to make them."

"Yeah!" Michael said, and he sounded excited. "Can I help?"

Lincoln was grateful for these small moments, when Michael was still eleven, still a kid, despite all the pressure. "Yeah," he said. "You wanna mix or measure?"

"Measure," Michael said decisively. "I'm better at it than you."

"Hey, just because that one box turned out bad—" Lincoln defended himself.

"At least I know the difference between teaspoon and tablespoon!" Michael retorted with a snort.

Well, there was no good defense to that.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"You're never there, Lincoln!" she yelled. "I can't keep leaving him with Michael! Michael's just a kid!"

Lincoln groaned in frustration. "I'm doing the best I can, Lisa!" he said. "I can't help the hours they give me! At least they pay!"

"If they pay so well, why can't you even—"

"I'm doing the best I fucking can!" Lincoln roared. "It's not easy trying to raise Michael all the time and LJ half the time, and keep the damn job, and Michael eats so fucking much, and—" He vaguely realized he was complaining, and he knew better than to think she'd care.

"I work hard too, Lincoln!" she said. "And my car needs a new transmission, and that's not exactly cheap either!"

"Don't blame me because your car's a piece of shit," Lincoln retorted.

"Maybe if you weren't always taking it and driving like a madman—"

"It was a piece of shit way before I got to it!" Lincoln yelled.

"At least I have a fucking car!" she retorted.

"Yeah, well, if I didn't have two kids to take care of instead of just one, maybe I could afford a goddamn car! It doesn't really matter though; I got 'em both, and they're not going anywhere. You should just be fucking grateful that Mike's as responsible as he is, and he can take good care of LJ, because otherwise we'd have to lose even more money to pay for a goddamn babysitter!"

"Oh, great! Your eleven year old brother is watching our baby!" said Lisa sarcastically.

"He's smarter and more responsible than your average twenty-five year old! Lincoln shot back.

"And that's fair, isn't it," Lisa sniped. "Expecting him to be a grown-up before he even hits fucking puberty, because you can't afford any better?"

"WE can't afford any better!" Lincoln said. He ran his hand over his hair. "It's not like it's what I want to do, Lisa. I don't have a fucking choice, alright? Both of us are behind on our bills, and we're all getting thinner, except for LJ because of WIC, and—"

"I do a good job," Michael said. "The best I can." His voice was small, but it cut Lincoln's rant off completely. What the fuck was he doing here?

"I thought you were doing laundry," Lincoln said.

"It doesn't take that long," Michael replied in that same quiet voice. He looked at Lincoln and Lisa, Lisa sitting on the couch, Lincoln pacing back and forth in front of it. What a sight we must make, Lincoln thought.

"Where's LJ?" Michael asked.

"Kitchen, in his basket," Lincoln said. Michael carefully made his way towards the kitchen.

"He's sleeping Michael!" Lisa said. Michael shook his head.

"Not after all that yelling," he said. "I'm surprised he didn't join in."

Michael dissapeard for a moment, then reappeared seconds later, holding an extremely alert LJ in his arms. "He was looking at himself in the mirror," Michael said.

Lincoln sighed. "Mike, can you take him for a walk or something?"

Michael's eyes met his. "Don't send me off if you're talking about me,' he said. It wasn't quite a request and it wasn't quite a demand.

Lincoln looked at Lisa, who shrugged. "Whatever," she said.

Michael squared his skinny shoulders, still holding LJ against his hip. He looked like he was ready to face a firing squad.

"I take good care of LJ," he said, speaking both to Lisa and Lincoln. Lincoln could read his brother's eyes; he was defending himself.

"I never said you didn't," Lincoln said. "I trust you."

Michael's gaze shifted to Lisa. "You don't, though, right? Because I'm young?" It wasn't exactly a question, Lincoln could hear.

"It doesn't seem fair," Lisa said. "You're just a kid, Michael."

Michael actually snorted. "Life's not fair, Lisa," he said. "Lincoln's right, you know. We don't have the money to pay for a babysitter, and I'm good at it anyway. And it's almost summertime now. So you guys will be able to work more, because I won't have school. I can watch him more. It's a fair trade."

Lisa sighed. "You've really got this whole thing worked out, huh?" she asked.

"You couldn't even guess," Michael replied. "I take good care of him. He's never gotten hurt or anything while I was watching him. That's more than you can say," he said pointedly to Lisa, running his hand over a small scar on LJ's arm.

"Michael!" Lincoln scolded.

"Well?" Michael said. "If she'd been watching him—"

"Don't you dare tell me I'm not a good mother! Kids get hurt!" Lisa replied defensively.

"All I'm saying is that I take good care of him. He's always been safe with me. And in a few weeks, I'll be able to watch him all the time."

"And you're okay with having no life?" Lisa asked.

Michael shrugged. "It's not like I'd be the only one," he said. "You guys are both working all the time; I'll watch LJ. It'll be fine."

"Shit," Lisa said. She shook her head.

"Mike, go take him for a walk," Lincoln said. Michael gave him a look, but Lincoln returned one with intensity, and Michael sighed and left the apartment, LJ in his arms.

"So…he's going to be our babysitter?" Lisa asked.

Lincoln sighed. "We don't have to like it. But Michael…he's a good kid, and smart as fuck, and he loves LJ. He's not gonna let anything bad happen to him. He'll take at least as good of care of him as any babysitter we could afford, Lisa." His mind went back to Hannah's babysitter, who had, months and months ago, locked the little girl out of her apartment. Michael would never do something like that to LJ. "He'll be good to him."

Lisa sighed. "That's not what I'm worried about," she said.

"It's the best we're gonna get," Lincoln said. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes. "Want one?" he asked, sliding one out of the pack.

Lisa sighed and took one. "Thanks," she said.

He lit his, then hers, and they sat together on the couch, smoking in companionable silence, glad that the argument was over for now.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Lincoln came in as quietly as he could. The lights were still on, but he knew that didn't mean anything. Michael was still afraid of the dark. He was only a month and a half shy of his 12th birthday, and he still wouldn't sleep with the lights off. Lincoln sighed as he entered.

He smelled burned food, and he wrinkled his nose. He hoped Michael had cleaned up the kitchen, and that there weren't pans stacked up in there, covered in burned food.

Then he looked down at the mattress, and what he saw made him stop. He almost, but not quite, smiled.

Michael was asleep on his back, one hand behind his head, and the other curled around LJ, who was curled up on his chest, fast asleep. They were too fucking cute; Lincoln found himself wishing he had a camera. LJ was drooling a little bit on Michael's shirt, and Lincoln wondered if Michael would be disgusted or if he would bend his usual neatnik tendencies for his nephew.

He walked into the kitchen; it had been cleaned. What had Michael burned, anyway? Well, he could worry about that tomorrow. He yawned.

He looked back out. He was half-afraid that if he slept where he usually did, he would crush LJ in his sleep somehow. He kicked off his shoes and walked over to the light switch, quickly flipping it off.

He walked over to the mattress and sat down on the edge, looking over at his son and his brother. They both were sleeping peacefully.

He could see LJ's mouth move, looking for and finding his thumb. Lincoln smiled and laid his hand gently on his son's head.

He sighed and laid down next to them, careful not to disturb either of them. These two…they were his blessing. They were his heartache and trouble and pain in the neck. But they were also his blessing. And he wasn't going to forget that.

He sighed and shut his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

Michael lifted LJ into the shopping cart. The baby fussed at him, and Michael pretended to fuss back. "Don't give me that," he said. "I want to go home too, you know."

As if he understood, LJ stopped fussing. Michael handed him his plastic teething ring. "Here," he said. "I'll go as fast as I can, okay?"

LJ started gnawing on the piece of the plastic, and Michael sighed. He readjusted his backpack and started to pull the cart out from all the rest.

"Michael?" he heard. He froze. "Oh my god."

It was Veronica. He turned. "Veronica," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm home for Christmas break," she replied. "I came to get some more stuffing." She had two plastic bags in her mittened hands. Her eyes lit on LJ. "Who's that?"

With a start, Michael realized that Lincoln hadn't talked to Veronica for a long, long time. That Vee didn't know about Lisa…or LJ. Oh man. "Uh…" Michael said. He shut his eyes for a moment, then plowed forward. "This is LJ. My nephew."

Veronica's eyes got enormous. "Your nephew," she said. "Lincoln's son?" Her mouth was agape. Michael nodded slowly.

"Since when?" she asked. "I mean…oh my god."

Michael stared at Veronica, who was staring at LJ. Suddenly, the sound of plastic hitting the floor broke Michael out of his daze. He bent and grabbed the teething ring off the floor, wiping it off on his coat before handing it back to LJ. "Don't do that," he said absently, knowing it was just to say something. LJ wouldn't listen, after all.

"How old is he?" Veronica asked.

"9 months," Michael said. He could see Veronica doing the mental math, and not liking the numbers she came up with. "It's gonna be his first Christmas," he added, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Oh, Michael," Veronica said. She put down her grocery bags. "Give me a hug, huh?"

Hesitantly, he walked over to her, and hugged her. He was a lot taller than he had been last time he'd hugged her; she remarked on it. "You've grown!" she said.

"Just a little," he said. He was almost as tall as she was now, though. It felt a little weird.

"Where do you live now?" she asked, releasing him.

"Same place," he said.

"With four people?" Veronica said.\

"No. Me, Linc, and sometimes LJ. Lisa's got her own place." He studied Vee's face; she tried to keep it still. He could read her anyways.

"Hmm. Okay. Well, do you have plans for this afternoon?" she asked.

"Not really," Michael replied. "I was just going to take the groceries home and watch LJ, so…"

"You should come with me, then," Veronica said. "Seems like I've missed a lot of stuff since I've seen you last." She tried to sound light, but Michael could hear worry in her voice. He smiled at her. She was always good to them.

"Well, I have to get the groceries first," Michael said. "You want to come with me?"

"Sure," Veronica said.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"I don't have a car seat," Veronica said.

"I was taking the bus," Michael said. "He just sat in my lap." He shifted LJ's weight higher on his hip.

"I don't like this," Veronica said.

"He'll be okay," Michael said. Veronica gave him a look, and he sighed. "Do we really have a choice, Vee?"

He could see her start when he called her Vee. Because Lincoln had always called her that? But she capitulated.

"Hold him tight. I'll drive really carefully," she replied.

Michael refrained from saying anything rude; he did take care of LJ more than anyone else after all. He got in the car and buckled his seatbelt, carefully settling LJ on his lap. The baby was still sucking on that teething ring, looking curiously around the car.

"I know. This isn't Mommy's car, is it?" Michael cooed to LJ. "This is Veronica's car. It's a lot nicer, huh? That's because Veronica has money."

"Michael!" Veronica said, swatting at his arm as she got into the driver's seat.

"I'm just explaining the facts of life," Michael said, switching back to his normal tone of voice. "The kid has a right to know!"

She shook her head. "Do you want to take the groceries to your house before going to my place, or do you just want to stick them in my fridge temporarily until I take you home?"

Michael thought about it for a second. It would be easier to just take them to Vee's, with the baby and all. Plus…he really didn't want her to see what kind of mess he and Linc and the baby were living in. He hadn't been able to clean it up for a couple days, and it looked awful. But…he needed to let Lincoln know where they were. He was probably at work by now, but Michael could leave a note. "Let's stop at the apartment quick, so I can leave a note and drop off the groceries," he said. "Maybe you could stay in the car with LJ?"

"Works for me," she replied after a moment. She put the car into drive, and Michael tightened his grip on LJ's little frame as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

He quickly put away the few groceries he'd purchased, and ripped a piece of paper out of one of his school notebooks. He scrawled a note on it quickly.

Lincoln,

Met Veronica at the grocery store. Went to her house with LJ. Will see you later.

Michael

Michael read it over again with a sigh. He knew it wasn't a great note, but he figured he would be home before Lincoln would even see it, and so it wouldn't matter. He had a feeling Lincoln wouldn't necessarily be happy that he'd hung out with Veronica.

Well, too bad. He wanted to see Veronica. He could deal with Lincoln later.

He left the note in the middle of the table, weighed down with his math book, and left the apartment, turning off the lights and locking the door.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Her parents weren't home; there was a note on the fridge that Veronica crumpled up and tossed as she put her groceries inside. "Make yourself comfortable," she said. "You want some food or something?"

Michael couldn't help his body's reaction. His stomach growled loudly, as if it had been waiting for the question. He hadn't eaten breakfast this morning. Veronica laughed.

"I'll take that as a yes," she said. Michael blushed as he pulled off LJ's snowsuit and put him down on the kitchen floor before taking off his own coat and kicking off his shoes. "Where should I put these?" he asked.

"Right inside the door's okay," she said. "It's not like you haven't been here billions of times, Michael."

Which was true…but it felt different now. Maybe because the last time he'd seen Vee, he'd been almost eleven years old, not twelve years old, with a nephew, and a completely different life. He quickly put their things where he always had, then went back to the kitchen.

Veronica had picked LJ up off the floor. "LJ, huh? For…Lincoln Junior?"

"Good guess," Michael replied.

"Was that Lincoln's idea?" she asked.

"I don't know," Michael replied.

"That strikes me as something he would do," she said. She held the baby out at arms length. "He's cute. He looks like Lincoln."

"And Lisa," Michael said. "Lincoln thinks he has her eyes."

Veronica raised her eyebrows, then looked towards Michael, bringing LJ to her chest. "Lisa's eyes? He's got your eyes, Michael."

Michael felt his eyes widen. He'd never thought LJ looked like him at all. He supposed that didn't make sense, though. He and Lincoln looked somewhat alike, so if the baby looked like Lincoln…well, he'd look something like Michael too. Michael shrugged. "Whatever," he said.

Veronica gestured towards the fridge. "Get something to eat, Michael," she said. "You're awfully skinny."

Well, that was something he wouldn't have to be told twice.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"We should probably get home," Michael said, sighing. He didn't really want to leave his comfortable place on her couch. He watched LJ scooting happily across the carpet.

"Is Lincoln going to be wondering where you are?" Veronica asked, turning towards him.

"No," Michael said. He knew Lincoln would be at work until ten or so. "He's still at work. I just…we've imposed enough."

"You're not imposing, Michael," she said. "I haven't seen you for so long. I've missed you, you know."

She was serious. It made Michael feel good, that she'd missed him. "I've missed you too," he said. More than you can even guess.

"Listen," she said. "What time does Lincoln get home from work?"

"Eleven, maybe a little earlier," Michael said.

"Well, there's no reason for you to go be home alone for hours then. We'll watch a movie or something, alright?" she said.

"Okay," Michael said. Part of him knew he should go home…but he WAS sick of being home with just LJ for company all the time. And it was almost Christmas, and that was supposed to be time with family. And if Lincoln wasn't around…well, Veronica was practically family. Where it counted, anyway.

"I'll make the popcorn. Do you like extra butter?" she asked.

"Yeah," Michael said. He jumped up to go after LJ, who was scooting towards the Christmas tree again, looking at the ornaments with a gleam in his eye. "LJ, no!"

He scooped up the baby long before he got to the tree, and LJ started to wail. Veronica laughed.

"How about you pick out a movie?" she said. "You know where they are." She rose gracefully and headed back into the kitchen.

Michael struggled with LJ, who was resisting his efforts to be held. "I know the ornament is pretty," Michael said, trying not to sound exasperated. "But you can't play with it. It'll hurt you."

LJ let out another indignant squawk. "I know. Uncle's so unfair," Michael said again. He managed to pull LJ into a more secure hold and tickled his stomach. "I'm a big meanie, huh?"

The baby wailed again, but with less conviction this time, and Michael tickled him again. "Yep. Uncle's a big meanie. Come on. Let's pick out a movie." He hefted LJ higher on his hip, and carried him over to the movie cabinet.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Veronica was amazed. Michael had always been different. He'd always been too smart, too sensitive, and too…old, for his age. But now, watching him, it was like watching an adult in a twelve year old's body.

She'd watched him with LJ. He was like the perfect uncle. Hell, the perfect parent. Patient, good-natured, but he set boundaries. LJ didn't get to do anything dangerous; Michael always rescued him from situations that weren't safe, like his continuous attempts to eat her parents' glass Christmas ornaments, but he didn't stop him from harmless explorations or normal kid stuff that wouldn't hurt him. He seemed to have an intrinsic understanding of what LJ could understand, and what he couldn't, and he didn't get angry about things that the baby just couldn't do anything about. It was astonishing to her.

He really took it seriously, is what it was. Veronica couldn't imagine Lincoln taking care of his son as well as Michael did. Which wasn't fair…but it was true. It was just a different kind of personality.

But he was still just a kid. She'd almost forgotten, until he'd fallen asleep during the movie. He'd fallen asleep on her couch, his arms wrapped firmly around LJ, his head lolling against the back of the couch. He was getting bigger; he was near her height now, but he still had that pre-teen look about him, the softer face and skinny frame. He was still the same Michael she remembered; a worrier to the core, too responsible for everyone else, but often forgetting himself. She pushed his hair off of his forehead; he could use a haircut, that was for sure.

She picked up the bowl of popcorn and turned off the TV, leaving the two sleeping in the glow of the Christmas tree as she went into the kitchen.

She heard a knock at the door, and her eyes went to the clock. It would be…she sighed and opened the door.

Lincoln stood on the other side, his hands deep in his pockets. His eyes got round when he saw her. "Veronica," he said, sounding surprised. Who did he expect to answer the door at her house?

"Lincoln," she replied. "Come in."

"Uh," he said. "I…uh, just came to get Michael and LJ."

"I know," she said. "They're asleep."

Something in his face shifted. To anger. What was he angry about? Veronica didn't understand. He came in, not bothering to take off his boots. "Michael!" he called loudly.

"You don't have to wake them!" Veronica said. "Jesus, Linc!"

"What? You know better than me, how to deal with them?" he asked, turning on her. He lowered his voice slightly. "I'm not gonna carry both of them home! Michael's a big boy."

"He's only twelve, Lincoln," Veronica replied. "You had him watching LJ all day? By himself? He might be more responsible than you, but he's not an adult yet!"

"They aren't your problem, Veronica," Lincoln replied. "Michael!" He raised his voice again.

"Shh!" Michael's voice wafted in from the living room. "I'm coming; don't wake LJ."

Veronica watched Lincoln clench his teeth and his fists. "You just had to get your nose where it didn't belong, huh Vee?" he asked.

"I just wanted to see Michael. It's only been…god, Lincoln. A year and a half? I wasn't trying to do anything."

"Don't," Lincoln said. "We're fine. Don't give him the impression we aren't."

And then, it sunk in for Veronica. "I wasn't trying to give him the impression you weren't fine. I just wanted to see him. Okay? However you're raising him and LJ, that's okay." She could hear that she was trying to pacify him with her voice, and she hoped he couldn't. "I know you're doing fine, Lincoln."

Lincoln's eyes met hers. She could see desperation there. He needed to believe her. "All right," he said. "Michael, come on," he directed towards the living room.

Michael emerged from the living room, carrying the sleeping baby. "We have to get him in his snowsuit," he said quietly to Lincoln.

"I'll do it," Lincoln replied, taking the baby from his brother. "Where's the snowsuit?"

Veronica grabbed it from behind the door and handed it over. She watched silently as Lincoln dressed his son, careful not to wake him. "You ready, Mike?" he asked, zipping up the main zipper of the snowsuit.

Michael nodded. "Thanks, Veronica," he said, giving her another hug. She kissed the side of his head, knowing he wouldn't notice.

"You're welcome anytime, Michael," she replied, releasing him. "All of you," she said, looking at Lincoln. "Lisa too."

Lincoln's eyes met hers. They looked tired. "Thanks, Vee," he said quietly. "Come on, Mike."

They walked out the door, towards the bus stop. Veronica shut it behind them but watched through the window.

She still loved them. She still loved HIM. And now…he'd had a baby. With another woman. And yet…her heart wouldn't let them go.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"Why'd you go to Veronica's?" Lincoln asked him as they waited for the bus.

"She was at the grocery store," Michael replied. He had the awful feeling he'd done something wrong, but he couldn't figure out why going with Veronica would be the wrong thing. "She…she offered."

"Why didn't you go home?" Lincoln asked again. His voice wasn't exactly sharp, but Michael could hear an undercurrent there. He wasn't pleased.

"I…I just, I didn't want to…" Michael bit his lip. "It was early. And you were at work, and Lisa was at work, and we don't even have a TV, and I…I hadn't seen her in a long time, and…I just wanted some company, you know?" He heard his voice squeak a little when he asked the question.

Lincoln sighed. "She invited you?"

"Yeah," Michael said. "It was her idea." He sniffed in the cold.

Lincoln nodded. "So…what did she think of LJ?" he asked after a long pause.

Michael swallowed. "She thinks he looks like you," he offered. "And she wanted to know who named him."

Lincoln chuckled. "Figures," he said. There was more quiet.

"I…I didn't think you wouldn't want me to go see her," Michael said. That was a lie, but he kept his head down, hoping Lincoln wouldn't look at him. "We always used to go over there."

"She's not my girlfriend anymore, Michael," Lincoln replied. He sounded sad. Those words hung between the brothers for a long time. In the distance, Michael saw the headlights of the late night bus. He looked up at Lincoln, whose face was tired, and a little bit sad.

"I miss her too," Michael replied.

Lincoln's head snapped towards Michael. "I didn't say that," he said roughly.

Michael shrugged, and looked at his boots. He heard Lincoln sigh.

"You fucker. Don't you dare tell Lisa…anything, you hear me? I will kick your ass. And I'm not joking." Lincoln's voice was stern.

Michael nodded. "I won't," he said. He figured everyone was entitled to a secret or two.

The bus pulled to a stop in front of them, and Lincoln gave Michael's shoulder a shove. "Go," he said.


	11. Chapter 11

"Shh. Come on, LJ." Michael's voice was quiet, but there was a desperation in it. "Please. You're gonna wake Linc."

Lincoln groaned and rolled over. "I'm awake," he mumbled, sitting up and shielding his eyes from the lights. "What's wrong with him?"

Michael looked anxious. "I don't know," he said. "But he won't stop crying. Do you have a thermometer? I think he might have a fever. He feels awfully warm."

Lincoln tried to clear his head to think. The baby kept wailing, making it difficult. "Uh…I think so," he said. "Did you look in the bathroom?"

"We don't have one, then," Michael said. "What about baby Tylenol or something? I'm pretty sure he has a fever."

"That would be in the bathroom too," Lincoln replied, getting to his feet and heading towards the bathroom.

"Don't bother," Michael said. "I already looked."

Suddenly, there was a loud, splashing noise, and a groan from Michael.

"What?" Lincoln asked, coming back into the living room.

"He just threw up all over me," Michael said. "And himself." He was holding the baby away from him slightly; there was baby puke all over his shirt. "Damn."

"Did you just swear?" Lincoln asked. He'd never heard Michael do that before.

The glare Michael gave him was toxic. "I'm going to clean him up," he said. "You should go get some baby Tylenol and a baby thermometer. Here. Take him for a second."

Michael handed LJ to Lincoln. Lincoln held his son at a distance, wondering if he was going to hurl again. He could feel the warmth radiating off of him. "Shit. He really does feel warm," he said.

"I told you," Michael replied, peeling off his tee shirt. He threw it in a pile with the rest of their dirty laundry, then took LJ from Lincoln. "Go get that stuff, okay?" He carried LJ into the bathroom.

"Yeah, okay," Lincoln said, grabbing a pair of jeans off the floor. He heard the water start.

………………………

"Shit," Lincoln said, looking at the number on the thermometer. "That's not good."

"How long does Tylenol take to work?" Michael asked anxiously, his voice cracking. Lincoln picked up the bottle with his free hand,

"I don't know," he said, trying to read the small print. "Half an hour, maybe?"

"And I just gave him a bath; that should have brought the number down, right?" Michael asked.

"Did you use hot water?" Lincoln asked.

"Not really hot," Michael said. "It was lukewarm." He looked like he was going to cry. "Did I do something wrong?"

Shit. Lincoln couldn't handle Michael's neediness right now, and yet…"No. You didn't," he said. This is what he got for forgetting that his brother was still a kid, and a kid who had to please everyone and do everything right at that. "Come on, Mike. Don't lose it on me."

He saw Michael nod and straighten his shoulder. "What can I do?" he asked.

Lincoln took a deep breath. He was the adult here, not Michael. And there wasn't anything that either of them could do for LJ right now; the boy was sick. But he'd be okay. They were both just freaked out and over-reacting.

"He'll be alright. Look, he's already starting to fall asleep," Lincoln said, turning so Michael could see the baby's eyes closing. "Go get me his basket, okay? We'll put it down next to the bed so I can hear him if he wakes up again, and we'll go back to sleep."

Michael nodded and got the basket from the kitchen table. "He's getting too big for this," Michael said. "You know, now that he can get out of it, no problem."

"It's just to sleep in," Lincoln said.

"We should get a playpen or something," Michael said.

"And put it where?" Lincoln asked, carefully settling his son inside the basket. Michael was right, he had to admit. LJ was too big for that basket anymore.

Michael shrugged. "I don't know. But he can almost walk now. He's too big for that."

Lincoln sighed. "Try to get some sleep, Mike," he said. "We'll go to Goodwill when LJ gets better, alright?" And spend the last of his money…Lincoln tried not to think about it.

……………………………

Lincoln stood outside the drop-off site, looking. He could see it right there, a playpen, along with bags of clothing and other furniture that he didn't want. It would be so easy to just grab it and go. There wasn't anyone watching or anything, not that he could see. He could read the sign of course: NO DUMPSTER DIVING. TRESSPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. But to prosecute him, they'd have to catch him, right? 

He looked again. He and Michael could clean it up, no problem. Now that LJ wasn't sick anymore, he was always crawling out of that damn laundry basket, tipping it over at three am and waking them both up. It was a simple solution; just one he had no money for. But it was right there.

He would do it. He shook his head. This felt beyond foolish, stealing a fucking playpen. It was probably the best reason he'd ever had to steal anything, but…damn, would he feel stupid if he ever had to explain himself.

…………………

He and Michael set it up together. He'd also felt stupid as fuck trying to get it back to his house on the bus. In the future, he decided, he'd stick to stealing smaller things. Or money. He smirked wryly at himself. Once a criminal, always a criminal, right?

"We should wash it too," Michael said.

"No kidding," Lincoln said. "Get some paper towels or something."

Michael returned from the kitchen with a roll of them. "Where'd you get it anyway?" he asked, ripping a few off. "I thought you said you didn't have the money."

"When did I say that?" Lincoln asked, taking the towels from Michael's hands. He swiped furiously at the playpen.

Michael shrugged and started to clean off another section. "When's Lisa dropping off LJ?" he asked.

"Soon," Lincoln said, sparing a glance at his watch. "Let's get this damn thing cleaned up."

"Do we have a blanket for it?" Michael asked.

"Use the one from his basket," Lincoln replied.

"It's not big enough," Michael said. "It won't cover the entire mattress."

"It's good enough," Lincoln replied.

"The mattress is plastic-coated," Michael said. "LJ could choke on it or something."

Lincoln sighed. "Okay. We'll make another trip to Goodwill, alright?"

"Do you have the money?" Michael asked.

Lincoln clenched his teeth in frustration. "Stop asking questions, Michael," he said. He was losing his patience, and quickly. He knew Michael wasn't trying to drive him crazy, but he was doing a damn good job of it.

He could feel Michael studying him for a long moment before he heard him reply. "Okay," he said.

…………………

He and Michael got off the bus. He shifted LJ in his arms. Lisa had been approving of the playpen. "Glad to see that money of yours is going to something good, for once," she'd sniped.

He'd wanted to have it out with her. He'd wanted to point out her hypocrisy. Not like her money wasn't going to other things besides rent and food. And she only had LJ, not an almost-teenaged-eating-machine to feed and clothe. But he'd held his tongue and taken his son with a bland almost-smile he was sure she could see through. Then again, maybe not. She didn't bother to try, after all.

He wondered when he'd stopped liking Lisa, and started hating her. They'd stopped fucking awhile ago, and now their relationship was purely centered around their son. Hell, now they barely even talked, except to inform each other about things related to LJ Was it really a relationship anymore? Probably not.

Michael opened the door, and they went inside. Lincoln walked to the back of the store. He knew it well; they came here all the time. "All right," he said. "Hurry up. Get one."

Michael started to look through the blankets, and Lincoln sighed. His brother didn't seem to understand that it really didn't matter; they were taking someone else's rejects. It was pretty much equally bad, wasn't it? 

LJ let out a loud fart, and Michael giggled. Lincoln groaned. "Did you just shit yourself?" he asked his son.

"He did, you know," Michael said, still looking through the blankets. "I can tell."

"How do you know?" Lincoln asked.

"I watch him all the time," Michael replied. He pulled a blanket out of the stack. "This one looks okay."

"Goddamn it," Lincoln said, looking at his son, who smiled at him innocently. "You've got the stuff in your backpack. Take him." He turned to Michael, trying to hand off the baby.

"Oh no," Michael replied. "It's your turn." He dropped the blanket and slipped his backpack off his shoulders. "Go right ahead."

Lincoln grumbled and grabbed the bag, tucking LJ under his other arm like a football. "I'll be back," he said to Michael.

He walked up to the cash register, where a bored-looking cashier stood. "Hey," he said. "You guys have a bathroom?"

The cashier's eyes widened when he looked at Lincoln. "Huh?" he said. He seemed to be studying him. Lincoln widened his shoulders.

"I asked if you had a bathroom. My kid?" he said, nodding towards LJ.

"Oh. Uh…yeah. Yeah, sure," the guy said. He seemed nervous. Lincoln didn't like how he was watching him; he didn't seem to even blink. "It's right back here." The man gestured behind the counter, to a door.

Lincoln walked around the counter and through the door, still feeling that guy's eyes on him. What the fuck was up with that? "Creepy," he said to LJ, who made a spit bubble in reply.

The bathroom was shabby and disgusting; pretty much what you would expect from a Goodwill. He crouched awkwardly, putting LJ on the floor. "Lay still," he told his son, who, of course, ignored him, squirming and trying to get up.

It was a battle. It took him nearly ten minutes to get LJ undressed, cleaned up, and re-diapered, and there was plenty of screaming (on LJ's part) and swearing (on his) before the ordeal was finished.

"Jesus. Alright, we're done," he told his son, lobbing the dirty diaper into the garbage can. He forced his son's squirming legs back into the baby-sized blue jeans and pulled them up again. "Okay? You okay?" he asked, putting LJ on his feet.

LJ stopped crying and stuck his thumb in his mouth. "Da da da," he said. Lincoln turned to the sink and washed his hands as LJ grabbed his calf with his free arm.

"Yeah. Daddy's got you. You gross little monster," he said affectionately. He tickled his son's stomach. "Come on."

He picked LJ up and grabbed Michael's backpack with his free hand.

When he walked back out into the main part of the store, he saw Michael first. Michael, looking extremely anxious. And then, only a few seconds later, he saw the cops.

The cashier was standing near the cops. "That's the guy," he said. Lincoln's body tensed. He dropped Michael's backpack and wrapped both arms around his son. LJ tensed too, probably feeling Lincoln's tension.

The cops started towards him. His eyes went to Michael, who looked terrified. "Lincoln?" he said.

"What's going on?" Lincoln asked. His voice was rough. He felt LJ's little fingers dig into his jacket.

"You need to come with us," one of the cops said.

"Wait a second," Lincoln said. "Michael. Come here."

"No," the other cop said. "Leave other people out of this." He looked nervous; a rookie? Probably; something about him read as green to Lincoln's fairly experienced eyes.

"He's my brother. I'm just gonna give my kid to him," Lincoln said. His heart was beating fast, but he wasn't stupid enough to resist arrest. Not with his son here, and not with Michael here to see.

Michael hurried up to him, and Lincoln handed LJ to him. LJ's lip started to tremble, and Michael looked like he wanted to cry too. "It's okay, Mike," Lincoln lied. "Call Vee, okay?"

Michael nodded.

"Move back, kid," the rookie cop said. Michael looked at Lincoln again hesitantly, and Lincoln pushed his shoulder lightly. Michael backed away, not taking his eyes from Lincoln. He looked stunned.

Lincoln had never felt so awful in his life as the cops came up to him. "Name?" the older cop asked.

"Lincoln Burrows," Lincoln said quietly.

"Lincoln Burrows, you are under arrest for theft of property. You have the right to—"

Lincoln didn't listen as they read his Miranda rights. He looked at Michael and LJ. Michael was soothing LJ, who was crying. Did he understand what was happening, or was he just crying because Michael was upset? Lincoln didn't know. He did know that he had fucked up again. Big time. He hung his head.

As they led him out of the store, he looked back. Michael was still watching him.

…………………………..

"Hey Vee. Can I talk to Michael?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. "Just a second." He heard her cover the receiver. "Michael! It's Lincoln!"

It was only a few seconds before he heard his brother's voice. "Linc?" His voice cracked, and Lincoln couldn't help the smirk that came to his face. He was glad Michael couldn't see it.

"Hey Mike. How're you doing?" he asked.

"I'm okay," Michael replied.

"How's LJ?" he asked.

"He's good too. He's learning new words. He called me Mike yesterday." Lincoln could hear the pride in Michael's voice. "Well, almost. It sounded kind of like Mike, anyway."

"That's cool," Lincoln replied. "And Veronica?"

"She's good," Michael said. "Her semester's over now. I've been staying with her….I suppose you knew that, though. Since you called her, huh? We haven't had a phone for a long time."

"Yeah," Lincoln replied. He looked around the room, but no one else seemed to be close enough to listen to his conversation. "The apartment?" 

"She's paying for it," Michael said. "We're going to owe her a lot."

"We already owe her a lot," Lincoln said wryly.

"I meant a lot of money," Michael replied, just as wryly. "We can't pay her back anything else."

Lincoln sighed. "Can I talk to her?" he asked.

"Sure," Michael replied. "Uh…"

"See you soon, Mike," Lincoln said.

"Twenty-seven days," Michael replied. Lincoln shook his head. Trust Michael to know it down to the day.

"Let me talk to Vee," he said.

"Okay." He heard Michael put down the phone. "Veronica? He wants to talk to you."

"I've got it Michael," he heard her say. "Hello?"

"Thank you, Vee," he said.

She sighed. "What else was I supposed to do, Lincoln?" she asked.

"I mean it," he said. "You've been…really good to us."

There was a long pause. "Yeah, well…you know I've always cared about you. Both of you." She sighed. "Apparently, I can't stop now."

"Thank you," he said.

"Hey, Sink, hurry it up," he heard from behind him. "I gotta call my old lady too!"

"Fuck off!" he hissed at the guy behind him. But Veronica had heard him.

"Gotta go?" she asked.

"Yeah," he replied. "Vee? I…I still…"

"I know," she said.

He heard the click, and then the dial tone. Lincoln put the phone in the cradle, and moved away as another con took his place.

He missed her. But it sounded like maybe she missed him too.

So maybe this hadn't been the worst mistake to make.

……………………

He walked out of the gates to see Veronica's car, and Michael standing in front of it.

"Linc!" Michael said. He didn't exactly run to him, but he moved quickly and grabbed him in a hug. Lincoln couldn't help but feel relieved that Michael still wanted to hug him, that he hadn't grown out of that yet, or grown too angry for such things. Lincoln hugged him back.

"Shit, you're getting taller," he remarked. He looked over to Veronica's car. She was getting out from behind the wheel. "Veronica."

She approached him, looking slightly unsure of herself. "Lincoln," she said.

"Thanks for coming to get me," he said.

She allowed him to give her a quick hug. Michael was the same height as Vee now, Lincoln noted. Three months was a long time.

"You're welcome," she said. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

"You're talking my language," he said, walking over to the car. He opened her car door for her; he noticed her eyes widen at that. Michael raised an eyebrow and grinned a little. The shit.

"So," he said, getting in the passenger side and giving Michael a push towards the backseat. "How about some coffee before you take us home? I still have a couple dollars." To his surprise, it had remained in his wallet over his stay in the legal system. An unusual occurrence, but one he was grateful for.

Veronica looked surprised. "Um…" she said.

"Please!" Michael replied enthusiastically. Lincoln caught his brother's eye in the mirror. He was trying to be helpful. Okay. Lincoln nodded, holding back a smirk. Michael's overabundant intelligence wasn't ALWAYS a pain in the ass...

"All right," Veronica replied, pulling out of the parking lot. "Where do you want to go?"

Lincoln settled back into the seat with a sigh. "It's up to you," he said.

In the mirror, he saw Michael smile.


	12. Chapter 12

Lincoln hadn't liked the idea; Michael had pushed him. "What did you like about middle school?" he'd asked Lincoln pointedly, and finally, Lincoln had consented. So Michael was starting 9th grade today, a few days shy of his 13th birthday. And he felt…really, really young.

The school had noticed that he was devastatingly bored. After a great deal of testing, it had been their suggestion to skip him to 9th grade. But now…well, he thought that may have been a bad idea.

He didn't think he looked that much younger than the other students; he was 5 feet 8 inches tall, and his voice had broken early, so superficially, he fit in. Sort of.

He managed to find his way to his science class, and chose a spot close to the front of the class, near the door. The rest of the spots filled quickly, with kids talking excitedly to each other. They all knew each other. They were all excited about what they'd done over the summer; obviously, it had been something more interesting than watching their nephew. All the time.

"Is anyone sitting here?" a soft voice asked. He looked up to see a girl standing next to him. She had long black hair that she pushed off her shoulder, and pretty almond eyes. Michael forced himself not to gape.

"What? Uh, no," Michael said. She smiled.

"Can I sit here?" she asked.

"Sure," Michael replied. She sat down gracefully.

"I'm Camille," she said., and started digging through her bag. She pulled out a notebook and set it neatly in front of her, along with a pencil.

"Michael," he replied, staring at her. She was something, all right.

……..

His lab partner was beautiful. That was not what he'd been expecting from high school, but it sure was a perk.

"You've got this goofy look on your face, Mike," Lincoln said. They were sitting at the table, eating dinner..

"Huh?" Michael asked. He poked at the spaghetti on his plate.

"So, what'd you think of high school, then?" Lincoln asked.

"It's good," Michael replied absently. He took a bite of noodles.

"Any good-looking girls yet?" Lincoln asked with a chuckle. Michael choked.

He coughed hard and spit out the noodles he'd just had on his fork. Lincoln's eyes widened.

"I'll take that as a yes, then?" he said. "Shit, Michael. You're not even thirteen yet!"

Michael kept coughing, feeling his face turn red. "She's my lab partner," he said.

Lincoln shook his head. Michael could see the smirk he was trying to hide.

"Your lab partner. Fucking hell, Michael."

Michael kept coughing. He'd breathed in some marinara or something. Lincoln leaned over and whacked his back hard a couple times, still shaking his head.

"Christ."

…………..

She was nice though, and funny, and Michael couldn't help but like her. They walked out of the science classroom together.

"That test's going to be really hard," she said to him. "I know I'm not gonna do well at all."

"It won't be that bad," Michael said. "You want to study with me? I'll help you." Seconds after he asked her, he realized that he'd, well, asked her. For a date. A study date, but still. He tried not to blush.

She looked at him with a smile. "Sure," she said. "When?"

"Uh…" Michael said. This hadn't been planned, and he had no idea.

Suddenly, he heard a deep voice say, "Hey, Camille!"

He looked up in time to see him grab her hand. A football player, by his jersey. An upperclassman, by his carriage. The guy kissed her, then scowled down at Michael. "Who are you?" he asked. The possessiveness in his voice was so strong as to nearly be physical. Michael's stomach dropped.

She had a boyfriend.

Of course. Girls as beautiful and funny and nice as Camille weren't single. He sighed.

"Michael Scofield," he said.

"He's my lab partner, honey," Camille said. "Relax, Jeff." She laughed a little, as if his possessiveness was funny. But the football player kept staring at Michael, and he didn't look at all happy.

"Come on, Cam," he said.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Michael," she said. "Good luck with the test."

"Thanks," Michael replied as Jeff pulled her away, looking like a Neanderthal. He sighed again.

So much for that.

………..

"So then…it's stable?" Camille asked.

"Yeah," Michael said. "Exactly." He pointed at the small diagram he'd jotted on the edge of the page. "Because the outer ring is filled. Get it?"

"I think so," she said with a sigh. She stretched. "I'm sooo sick of studying this stuff, though. Let's go get something at that coffee shop down the block."

Michael thought of the money in his wallet. A couple bucks. He couldn't really afford that…but he would be doing something with Camille besides studying. And that would be worth it, right? "Okay," he said.

They put their books into their backpacks, and swung them onto their backs. They were quiet as they left the library; Michael held the door for Camille.

"Thanks,' she said.

"Yeah," Michael replied.

"I'd never be passing this class if you weren't helping me," Camille said. "I guess it's a good thing that I was late the first day and that chair next to you was the only one left."

"Uh, yeah," Michael replied awkwardly. He hadn't realized he'd been her only choice.

It was cold outside, and their breath hung in the air. They didn't talk again until they reached the coffee shop.

"I think some hot chocolate," Camille said. "It's so cold out there."

"It's gonna snow soon," Michael said.

"It's not even November yet," Camille protested.

"It's Chicago," he said. "That doesn't mean anything."

"I guess not," she replied. They stepped up to the counter and ordered. Camille grinned.

"Max!" she said. "I didn't know you worked here."

"Yeah," the barista said. "Where's Jeff?" he asked, staring pointedly at Michael.

"Oh, around," Camille said. "This is my friend, Michael."

Michael nodded at Max, who nodded back stiffly. He looked a little suspicious, studying them both as they ordered. Michael didn't like the look on his face.

"Six twenty five," Max said, extending his hand for cash. Yeah, that expression was definitely a scowl.

Michael handed over the last of his money and prayed that Lincoln would understand. Camille smiled at him.

"You're such a sweetheart, Michael," she said, and he forgot completely about the barista.

He blushed again.

……………….

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

It came out of nowhere, followed quickly by a strong hand grabbing his shirt and shoving him against his locker. Michael grimaced as his lock dug into his skin. He was inches from Jeff's very angry face.

"Wh-what?" he stuttered.

"What? She's my girlfriend, you little prick. What the hell were you doing together this weekend?"

Michael could feel the anger radiating off the older boy. "We were studying!" he said.

"Studying? Max said you looked pretty damn close at the coffee shop! That's not fucking studying!"

Michael shook his head. "You're paranoid," he said.

"I ought to kick your ass," Jeff said. "She's MY girl!"

"We were just studying," Michael replied.

"Yeah, well, you better stop. I don't want you anywhere near her," the football player replied, scowling.

"What the hell's your problem? Don't you trust your girlfriend?" Michael asked.

He didn't mean to sound taunting, but he did. He saw Jeff's face twist.

The fist to his face caught him by surprise. His head smacked the locker behind him. He heard yelling and excited voices from around them. "Fight!" he heard someone yell.

Michael's instincts came into play now. This wasn't his first beating after all.

He automatically threw his hands up to shield his face, and the second punch caught his forearm. Other images overlapped, and for a second, he was confused. He could see his foster father winding up to hit him, and Lincoln's hand, raised as if to slap him again. And then he was back, and Jeff's fist was thudding into his stomach.

Michael bent over double, dropping to the floor, and falling out of the football player's grip. And then, he struck out, hitting him hard in the stomach.

Jeff lurched backwards, and then someone grabbed his arm. "What's going on here?" he heard a booming voice ask.

Another hand grabbed Michael's upper arm. A different hand; an adult hand. Michael was yanked to his feet. He looked up.

His science teacher had his arm. Another teacher, one he didn't recognize, held Jeff's.

"Office," the teacher boomed again. "Now."

Shit.

……………

"What the fuck, Michael?" Lincoln asked him, his hand gripping Michael's shoulder painfully. "They called me at work!"

"I didn't start it," Michael said.

"You're suspended for three fucking days?" Lincoln replied. "That's just great!" He gave Michael a shake.

Michael tried to pull away. "It wasn't my fault!" he said.

The bus pulled up then, and Lincoln gave him a shove towards the door. "When we get home, we're gonna finish this," Lincoln said. "Get on the fucking bus."

Michael's stomach twisted. This was not good.

…………….

Michael knelt by the bathtub, using a towel to muffle his sobs.

Lincoln had yanked off his belt and let Michael have it, and it had hurt like hell. But that was nothing, compared to the sting of Lincoln's words.

"And I lost my job because of this! Do you understand that? I lost my fucking job! My fucking job, to take care of your ungrateful ass, and you LOST IT FOR ME!"

He'd tried to explain, but Lincoln couldn't hear it. He didn't want to hear it. His fury was too much.

"All I ask is that you go to fucking school and behave yourself, and you get in a fucking fight? Jesus Christ, Michael! What the hell do you even have to be fighting about? It's like you're asking for trouble! And now, because of you, I don't have a FUCKING JOB! So when we're all freezing and starving this winter, guess who you can thank?"

In the end, Michael hadn't even struggled against Lincoln when he'd started to spank him with that stupid belt. Why? He deserved it. Even as he sobbed from the pain of the leather hitting his backside, he couldn't pretend that he hadn't done something really stupid, really wrong. Now what were they going to do to pay rent? And the groceries, and the heat? And LJ always needed things, and, oh God…Christmas was coming soon enough, and Michael had ruined it all.

He let his forehead drop against the edge of the tub and he continued to sob.

He didn't know where Lincoln had gone, but he'd guess it wasn't anywhere good. Lincoln was probably going to see Derek, and get some more pot to sell. But he didn't have a choice, and that was all Michael's fault. If Lincoln ended up in jail again, THAT would be Michael's fault.

It was all his fault.

………….

"Hey Camille," he said timidly as she walked into the classroom.

The look she gave him made him feel about two inches tall. "Don't even talk to me," she said.

"What did I do?" he asked. She raised an eyebrow.

"I can't believe you," she said. "I just…oh, God." She let out an exasperated sigh. "You're going to have to find a new lab partner."

She flounced past him, finding a seat in the back of the classroom. Michael sighed heavily.

So she hated him now. Lincoln was still pissed. And he was sore, and had a black eye from Jeff's first punch.

This was great.

…….

The smell alerted him. "Are you selling?" he asked Lincoln when he came in the door. He put LJ on the ground, and LJ ran to Lincoln, holding his arms up.

Lincoln picked up his son. "Hey buddy," he said. Then he looked to Michael. "What?" he asked.

It sounded like a genuine question, so Michael repeated himself. "Are you selling again?" He kept his voice quiet, not wanting to start a fight.

Lincoln's eyes narrowed. "Do you want to live on the street?" he asked, putting LJ back on the floor. The toddler made his way back towards Michael; Michael looked at him, avoiding Lincoln's eyes.

"You're gonna end up in jail again, Lincoln," Michael said quietly as LJ walked back into his arms.

Lincoln tossed his coat to the ground. "Yeah, and whose fault will that be?" he asked angrily, then turned and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door. Michael flinched and let go of LJ, who started walking towards the kitchen.

So, he wasn't forgiven yet. He hadn't meant to cause so much trouble though. It really had been an accident.

Michael could feel the tears building up behind his eyes and he sniffed, trying to hold them back.

"Mike?" LJ said from the kitchen. "'Nack!"

Michael nodded and stood up. "Okay, LJ," he said. "You want a snack?"

"'Nack!" LJ confirmed.

He made his way into the kitchen and opened the cupboards, pulling out a box of cereal. He grabbed a plastic bowl from another cupboard, and started to pour it.

He could hear Lincoln's footsteps, and he kept his head down, feeling the tears threatening again. He was sorry…and he couldn't prove it.

"Here," he said to LJ. "Sit down. On the bed," he directed. LJ did, and Michael sat the cereal in front of him.

"Michael," he heard Lincoln say from behind him.

He straightened up, but didn't turn to face him. "Yeah?" he said stiffly so that Lincoln wouldn't hear the tears in his voice.

He heard Lincoln sigh.

"Listen, man, I didn't mean it. I'm just…it's not your fault, all right? I'm just…" He could hear Lincoln struggling with the words.

"I'm sorry," Michael said, cutting him off. "I didn't mean to make you lose your job, Linc. I swear!"

"It's not your fault, man, okay?" Lincoln said. "I didn't mean that. Listen, I'm high, and I'm upset, so just ignore me, alright? He wouldn't have fired me if I hadn't missed a shitload of work before this happened."

He turned to look at Lincoln, whose eyes were glassy and tired. He decided that he could pretend to believe him, if it meant that Lincoln would pretend he'd forgiven him.

"Okay," Michael replied. Lincoln reached out his hand and clasped Michael's shoulder.

"It'll be okay. We'll figure something out," he said. "We always do, right?"

"Yeah," Michael said, trying to sound convincing. Lincoln gave him a light shake.

"Okay, then," Lincoln replied. "This is just temporary, Mike," he said.

"Temporary," Michael replied.

Lincoln nodded and let go of him. "I'm gonna go have a smoke," he said. "I'll be back in a few."

Michael nodded, and watched Lincoln pull his coat back on and walk out the door. He looked down at LJ, who was still eating Cheerios with single minded determination, and sighed. He'd fucked up this time, not Lincoln. But they all were going to pay the price.

Someone always had to pay it, after all.


	13. Chapter 13

"Daddy!" LJ said, raising his arms to be picked up. Lincoln grinned and lifted him.

"Hey buddy. How're you doing?" he asked. The n he looked at Lisa. "Lisa," he said.

She looked funny. "Lincoln," she said. "I…I have some bad news."

Then she burst into tears.

Lincoln stared at her. What on earth…he turned to Michael, who was standing awkwardly by his side, and handed LJ over. Michael's eyes were wide and questioning.

"Take him for a walk," Lincoln said. Michael nodded.

"Come on, LJ," he said. "Let's go."

Lincoln turned back to Lisa, who was holding her ribs, crying helplessly. "Lisa, what's wrong?" he asked. He moved closer, and hesitantly reached out and touched her shoulder.

She crumpled into his arms, so he caught her. "Hey, hey, come on," he said. "What's going on?"

"My dad…he died, Lincoln," she managed to say.

"Oh," Lincoln replied. He held onto her as she cried into his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Lisa," he said, feeling helpless and stupid. He didn't do emotions very well, and he'd be the first to admit it.

"His funeral's in Minnesota," she said. "My car won't make it." She looked up at him, tears still flowing down her face.

Then it hit him. He sighed softly. "How much do you need?" he asked.

"A plane ticket's worth," she said. "I'll stay with my mom." She wiped her eyes with her hand. "I don't have it."

Neither did Lincoln, but he understood. She had to go. "I'll get it for you," he replied.

She nodded. "Thank you," she said quietly.

He nodded back. "I've got to go…talk to someone," he said. "When you pick LJ up tonight, I'll have it for you."

He needed to find Crab.

…………………………

"Yeah, man, I can do that for you," Crab said. "You know the deal."

Lincoln did. He nodded. "Yeah. I'll sell it for you. I need it upfront, though."

"Naturally," Crab replied. "Don't they all." But he disappeared into a bedroom, and came back with a backpack, and a roll of cash. "Here. Make sure you get it all sold quick."

"Yeah," Lincoln replied, taking the cash and putting it in his wallet. He took the backpack with a little more trepidation. But how else would he pay back this debt? This was all he had; his connections. That was pretty much his only way to pay it back.

"Alright. See you soon."

Lincoln nodded and showed himself the door.

He hated this. Working for Crab was not the same as working for Derek. Derek was a friend, for one thing. He was a little more tolerant of Lincoln's…slowness in paying things back. But Crab could get him enough money for the rent, the last month of heat, some groceries, and a plane ticket for Lisa. Derek couldn't.

Well, he had to do it somehow.

………………………..

"Come on, LJ. Bath time," Michael said.

"Noooo!" LJ howled.

Lincoln rolled his eyes and got up from the kitchen table where he was preparing for some sales tonight. "Little barbarian," he said, grabbing the toddler under his arms and handing him off the his brother. "You need a bath, or Mommy's not going to recognize you when she comes back." After four entire days of caring for LJ, without a break to speak of, Lincoln was tired.

"Nooo!" LJ howled again.

"Yessss!" Michael replied. "Come on." He carried the squirming kid into the bathroom as Lincoln took his seat again.

"Oh, gross," Michael said.

"What?" Lincoln asked, sealing another bag.

"The tub's growing mold," Michael said. "Weren't you supposed to clean it this week?"

"I've been busy," Lincoln replied.

"No bath?" LJ asked.

"Just throw some dish soap in the water," Lincoln suggested. "It'll act as a two-for-one, bubble bath and tub cleaner."

"That's disgusting," Michael replied.

"LJ's not gonna know," Lincoln countered.

"If I wasn't so tired, I wouldn't listen to you," Michael said as he walked back out into the main room. He grabbed a bottle of dish soap off the kitchen counter and headed back into the bathroom. "If he gets some kind of fungus growing on him, it's going to be squarely your fault."

"Blame me all you want," Lincoln replied. He tucked the prepared bags into his jacket pocket. It was getting a little warm for his leather jacket, but he'd rather wear that then carry some kind of bag. It seemed less suspicious looking.

He heard the water turn on. "Come on, LJ. Lift up your arms," Michael said, trying to pull off the toddler's shirt.

"I'll see you later, Mike," Lincoln said. "Lock the door, alright?" He made one last quick check of all his pockets.

Michael looked down the hall to where Lincoln was standing by the door. "You're going out?" he said. Lincoln could hear the real question behind those words. You're selling for Crab?

"Yeah," Lincoln replied.

Michael's eyes looked anxious. "Don't get caught, Linc," he said. "Please."

"Don't worry so damn much," Lincoln said. "I've never been caught."

Michael bit his lower lip.

"Daddy! Bye-bye!" LJ cried, taking advantage of Michael's distraction to make a break down the hall for Lincoln's arms again.

Lincoln picked him up. "Bye-bye, LJ," he said, kissing the top of his son's head. "You be good for Michael."

Michael had stood and walked down the short hallway by then, and Lincoln handed LJ to him. "Be careful, all right?"

"Always," Lincoln said.

He opened the door and walked out. Michael's eyes seemed to follow him.

He was always careful. It would be fine.

………………………..

He counted out the money for Crab. "See? It's all there."

"Yeah," Crab said. "That's good."

Lincoln nodded.

"You gonna want some more?" he asked him.

Lincoln shook his head. "Not for now," he said.

Crab nodded, with a little smirk. "You'll be back," he said.

And unfortunately, Lincoln didn't doubt it.

……………………..

"It's not a bad job, Lincoln," Veronica said.

"A janitor?" he said incredulously. "Have you seen our apartment, Vee?"

"I'm sure you can figure it out," she said. "And it's better than what you've been doing."

"What I've been doing?" he said cautiously.

"Selling for Crab?" Veronica replied.

Lincoln was shocked. How the hell did she know about that? "What do you mean?" he asked, trying to play dumb.

"Don't," she said. "Michael told me."

Michael. "Of course Michael told you," Lincoln said. "Jesus. That kid needs to learn to keep his mouth shut!"

"He's worried about you, Lincoln. And LJ. And himself, to be honest." Veronica faced him. "You know that I'll keep an eye on him, but he hates that. And if you get caught selling for Crab…well, that's not just a misdemeanor, Linc. You'll be in for a few years, you know? I can't watch him when I'm at school, and he's not even fourteen yet. He can't take care of himself. He thinks he's gonna end up in the system again."

"He's not—"

"Can you blame him?" Veronica asked. "Say you got five years…he'd be 18 when you got out. He'd be like you, another kid aged out of the system. Is that what you want for him?" 

"No!" Lincoln said. His voice was sharp. "He's not gonna be like me at all! He's better than me."

"Lincoln—" Veronica said.

"No! He's not gonna be like that; I won't let it happen. I'm just trying to take care of us, Vee!" He was yelling at her now, right in the middle of the sidewalk. He was glad that in this part of town, no one even paid attention to such things.

"I know," she said, her voice still quiet. She wasn't afraid of him; just sad. "But if it doesn't work…the price tag's awfully high on this one."

It was the soft concern in her beautiful eyes that made his anger melt away.

"I'm trying so fucking hard, Vee," he said tiredly. "It's just…"

"I know," she said quietly, wrapping her arms around him. "I know, Linc."

They held each other, in the middle of the sidewalk for a long moment. Finally, Lincoln let go of her.

"Alright. I'll pay him back tonight," he said, "like I was planning."

"And…?" Vee asked.

"And I'll apply for your damn janitor job," Lincoln said.

"It's really not that bad, Linc," she said. "Come on. The building's only a few more blocks from here."

"You had this planned from the start, didn't you?" he asked as they started to walk again. Veronica smiled at him and took his hand.

"Can't blame a girl for trying," she replied.

………………..

"So you got the job?" Michael asked, sitting on the arm of the couch.

Lincoln sighed. "You both were in on it?" he said. He didn't know why he bothered asking, since it was obvious.

"Yeah," Michael said. He looked slightly nervous. "It really is better, Lincoln. I know it doesn't make as much money, but it's so much safer. You won't end up in prison over Clorox and Scrubbing Bubbles."

His brother sounded like he was pleading with him to understand. Lincoln sighed.

"I know," he said.

"Are you mad that I told Veronica?" Michael asked.

"You do talk too damn much, you know," Lincoln said.

"I was worried," Michael defended. "I've heard stuff about Crab, at school."

"Kids at your school know who Crab is?" Lincoln said.

"You don't think you're the only guy he's got selling for him, do you?" Michael asked. "He can be really rough if you don't get him what he was expecting for stuff."

"I know this, Michael," Lincoln replied. "But I got him what he wanted."

"Shit happens, though," Michael said, surprising Lincoln. He was always surprised when Michael swore; it didn't seem to fit him.

"Yeah, it does. But I'm not an idiot high schooler," Lincoln said. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm not selling for him anymore."

"Promise?" Michael asked.

"Michael…" Lincoln said, feeling a spark of impatience.

"Swear to me," Michael said. "Swear it, and I'll believe you." Michael's blue-green eyes met his, wide and nervous.

Lincoln sighed. "I swear, Mike," he said.

Michael nodded slowly. "Alright," he said. He clumsily dropped from the arm of the couch to the seat next to Lincoln. "That's good."

Lincoln hoped he'd still think that when he realized exactly how little money they would have this summer. "Yeah," he said.

…………

"Want an underdog, LJ?" he asked.

"Yeah!" his son yelled excitedly.

"Okay. Hang on tight," he said, watching his son's hands tighten on the chains of the swing. He pushed the swing, then ran underneath. LJ let out a squeal of excitement. "More!" he cried.

Lincoln panted and leaned against the support bar of the swing. "You're gonna wear me out," he complained teasingly to his son. "Maybe it should be Michael's turn."

He turned and looked over towards the soda machines, where Michael had gone to get a drink. His eyes stopped though when he saw a familiar face. Not one you'd expect to see at a playground.

Crab, who was sitting on a picnic table, talking with a pair of kids. They looked a few years older than Michael, but their age didn't fool Lincoln. There was an exchange going on here.

He shook his head. Yeah, this park was in a fairly shitty neighborhood, but Jesus Christ, who did stuff like that at a park? There were little kids playing all over the place.

Of course, logically, he knew it was a great idea, as far as business was concerned. But the part of him that worried about Michael and LJ…well, that part of him was angry at the idea.

He saw Michael walk right past Crab, without any sign of recognition. Lincoln had worked hard to make sure that Michael and Crab would never meet face to face, always going to Crab's place to do exchanges and telling him to stay away from Lincoln's apartment.

"Daddy, more!" LJ yelped. Lincoln turned to his son, who was kicking his legs as the swing slowed down significantly.

"Yeah, okay," Lincoln replied, walking around behind the swing again. He gave it another push, and sent LJ back higher in a burst of giggles. He looked back towards Crab. The teenagers were zipping up their backpacks and walking off.

"You okay?" Michael asked, surprising him.

"Huh? Yeah. Push LJ," Lincoln said. "I'll be right back."

Michael didn't move. "Is that…Crab?" he asked.

Lincoln looked at him disbelievingly. "How the hell do you—"

"I saw that exchange," Michael replied. "And you're glaring daggers."

"You stay away from him, Michael, you hear me?" Lincoln said. "I don't want you to ever even talk to him." He took a step towards where Crab was sitting.

"You're going to?" Michael asked. Lincoln stopped.

"Yeah. Watch LJ," he commanded.

"Mike, more!" LJ pleaded.

"Hang on LJ," he said, and turned back to his brother. "Why? I thought you said you were done with that. You swore!" Michael's voice was quiet, but intense.

"I am done with it," Lincoln replied. "Now stay here, shut up, and watch LJ. We're just gonna talk."

He strode away before Michael could say anything else.

Crab saw him coming. "Burrows," he said.

"A playground?" he replied hotly.

"It's business, man," Crab said. "You need some money?"

Lincoln clenched his teeth. "No. What the hell are you doing at a playground?"

"You got eyes," Crab replied. "No one pays attention to kids here."

Lincoln opened his mouth, but Crab cut him off.

"Listen, man, don't get all self-righteous on me. You've sold for me, and you take product into your apartment with your kids, so don't tell me this is worse somehow. We all gotta pay the bills." Crab was matter of fact.

Lincoln shut his mouth. "Yeah," he said. "I guess you're right."

He turned and started back towards LJ and Michael. He could see Michael watching him, even as he pushed LJ on the swing.

"You ever need something, you know where to find me, huh Burrows?" Crab called after him.

Lincoln just shook his head, not sure if he was more disgusted with Crab…

…or himself. Because again, he was considering it.

"Come on, Mike, let's go," he said to his brother, who nodded and lifted LJ out of the swing.

"NO!" LJ cried, struggling. Lincoln took him from Michael.

"Yeah. Come on; we'll get some ice cream or something." Another thing he couldn't afford, because this damn janitor's job didn't pay anywhere near enough. Well, they'd be struggling anyway. They might as well have a little fun this summer.

"Okay," LJ said after a moment of thought. It was easy to fix things for him.

Too bad he couldn't fix his and Michael's problems just as easily.


	14. Chapter 14

Michael carried his tray through the lunchroom, feeling so tired. He was sick of this, sick of school. 10th grade wasn't any better than 9th had been. At least Jeff had graduated. Camille still didn't talk to him, but he could handle that. Hell, no one really talked to him.

He went to his usual table in the corner and plopped down his tray, then sat and stabbed at a limp green bean with his fork. Veronica had been the one who'd filled out the forms to get him free lunch, and he was grateful…but damn, the food was bad.

Still, better than nothing. Lincoln told him to eat at school, since it was paid for. "The more you eat there," he'd told him, "the less I have to buy groceries. It's a damn good deal."

He hated that they didn't have enough money to be able to get endless groceries. WIC helped with the food of course; they provided milk and cheese and cereal and juice for LJ…but most of that went to Lisa's house, not theirs. LJ was never hungry, but sometimes he and Lincoln were. It was just another one of those things that he couldn't change.

He knew Lincoln was considering selling for Crab again. Yeah, he'd sworn that he wouldn't to Michael…but Michael could see the signs. He could see his brother's desperation sometimes as he'd count his money on pay day. It didn't stretch far enough. Michael had told Lincoln today that they needed money for the rent and the electricity, and Lincoln had looked so frustrated. "We don't have enough for both," he'd said shortly, and Michael knew he'd have to stop at the dollar store on the way home from school to buy another box of candles. He hated it; his fear of the dark made it nearly unbearable, but as Lincoln had pointed out, "It's better to be indoors in the dark than on the street in the dark, ain't it?" And Michael had been forced to agree, however reluctantly.

Lincoln had gotten really pissed off when Michael had timidly suggested they ask Veronica to borrow some money, and so he knew that was out. He'd thought Lincoln might hit him; he'd looked that angry. "She's not our fucking piggy bank, Michael," he said. "We're just gonna have to deal with it."

Michael knew Lincoln could get money from Crab. But it terrified him, because if Lincoln got arrested…well, Michael had done his research. He could do up to 5 years, and Michael would be 19 before Lincoln got out. There was no way he could just "crash with Vee" for four years. He knew how the system worked well enough to know that he'd end up in foster care. And that couldn't happen. So Lincoln couldn't sell.

He sighed and took a bite of his sandwich. It was just another thing to worry about…and Michael knew that was all he could do. It wasn't like he could stop Lincoln.

And that was terrifying.

……..

"Michael. We gotta talk."

Michael looked up from the bills he'd been studying. "What?" he asked cautiously. His brother's tone made him nervous.

Lincoln shook his head and walked to the fridge. He grabbed a beer and opened it before walking to the table and taking a seat across from Michael. Michael just watched him. Lincoln was nervous, he could tell. So Michael hadn't done anything…but Linc probably had. Or was considering it. Michael swallowed, and watched his brother carefully.

"This money situation—" Lincoln said.

"I know. We can't pay the electric and the rent. I got a box of candles from the dollar store," Michael said. "They're on the counter." He gestured.

Lincoln didn't look. "I saw them," he said. "But I'd forgotten…we're gonna need heat too. It's starting to get cold out there."

"It's not even October yet," Michael said. "We can hold out a little longer."

"Not if LJ's here," Lincoln replied. "And Lisa got a new shift; he's gonna be here a lot. And we'll need electricity too, with him here. What if he knocked over a candle or something?"

"What do you want me to do about it, Lincoln? I'm not a magician; the money will only go so far." Michael was frustrated too. He couldn't fix this; he wasn't old enough to get a job yet. One more year; he was pretty sure he could work once he turned 15. But until then…he had nothing.

"Listen. I know I promised you—" 

"No," Michael said. He knew at once what Lincoln was going to ask. "No way. Lincoln—"

"It's money, Mike. Way more than I can make otherwise. I already have two jobs; I can't take on another. But if I sold for him, I could quit the Safeway, and just work as a janitor. And we'd have enough."

"What if you get caught? Vee's not gonna take care of me for four year, Linc. You could end up doing five!"

"I wouldn't get caught," Lincoln said.

"Yeah, 'cause you know, your track record is so great. You get caught for everything!" Michael cried.

Lincoln snorted. "Hardly," he said.

Michael took a deep breath. He decided he didn't want to know. "Lincoln…"

"Mike, we need the fucking money," Lincoln said. He was fighting to keep his voice down.

"Yeah," Michael replied. "But LJ and I…we need you, you know? There's gotta be another way."

"Don't even suggest asking Vee," Lincoln said, his eyes narrowing. "I already told you—" 

"I wasn't going to," Michael said. Which was true; Lincoln had been so mad last time he'd suggested it. "But maybe there's someone else who could borrow you some money…"

"And how the fuck would I pay it back, Michael?" Lincoln demanded. "My jobs barely make enough to pay rent and groceries and sometimes electricity; I'm not gonna be able to pay anyone back. Think, Michael! Use that fucking brain of yours!" Lincoln rose suddenly, and his chair slid back violently.

"I am," Michael replied. "You're the one who isn't thinking, Lincoln!"

"I'm not gonna get caught, Mike," Lincoln said. "It'll be fine."

"You promised, Lincoln!" Michael begged. "Please!"

Lincoln closed his eyes. "I know. But Michael…I can't take care of you and LJ without money. You've gotta be as sick of being cold and hungry as I am."

"If we're so broke, how come you still buy stuff from Derek?" Michael shot back. "I bet if you stopped that, we'd have more money."

Lincoln looked shocked for a moment, then he shook his head. "Not enough. We still wouldn't be able to—"

"Yeah, we would!" Michael said.

"Yeah, okay, maybe. But then I wouldn't be able to deal with my life!"

Michael froze. The honesty in Lincoln's voice when he said that took him completely off guard. He sat back in his chair, feeling as though he'd been hit.

"Michael…" Lincoln said. He sounded regretful.

Michael realized his mouth had dropped open at that. He shut it and let his chin drop to his chest with a sigh.

"All right," he said.

"All right?" Lincoln echoed.

Michael lifted his head and looked his brother in his eyes. "All right. Go ahead. Sell for Crab."

"Michael, I didn't mean that how it sounded," Lincoln said.

"Yeah, you did," Michael replied. He wasn't stupid; he could read raw honesty as well as anyone else. "It's alright. Just do it. But don't you dare get caught, Lincoln, or I swear to God...If I end up in foster care again, I'll never forgive you. You understand that?"

"Yeah," Lincoln said. "It's not gonna happen, Michael. I promise."

"Don't bother," Michael said. He was surprised by the bitterness in his own voice. "You promised you wouldn't sell for Crab again, didn't you? It doesn't mean shit." He pushed his chair out from the table and walked into the kitchen, to get a glass of water.

Lincoln moved too, reaching for Michael. Michael pulled away.

"Don't," he said.

"Michael," Lincoln pleaded. "I'm doing the best I can."

Michael sighed and stopped. He felt his brother's hand cautiously land on his shoulder, grip it gingerly, then more firmly when Michael didn't pull away. "You know I'm doing the best I can," Lincoln repeated, squeezing Michael's shoulder, like a distant hug.

"Yeah," Michael said. "Yeah, I know."

And the sad thing was, he did.

…….

"C'mon, LJ. We're gonna go take a picture with Santa," Michael said.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Lincoln grumbled.

"Shut up, Linc," Michael said quietly. "What do you want for Christmas?" he asked LJ, who he held in his arms.

LJ giggled. "Ninja Tuwtle!" he said, pumping his little fists in the air and nearly hitting Michael in his enthusiasm.

"Ninja Turtle, huh?" Michael asked. "Which one? Donatello? Raphael? Michaelagelo?"

"Michael!" LJ said with another grin.

"Great. All he wants for Christmas is you. That should be easy enough," Lincoln replied.

"Lincoln!" Michael said, turning his head away from his nephew. "Stop being such a shit."

"Christ," Lincoln said. "Role reversal?"

"Well, then stop acting like a teenager," Michael replied. He faced forward again, and stopped. "Oh, God."

The line for Santa was colossal.

"Fucking hell," Lincoln echoed. "We don't have to do this."

Michael swallowed. "I promised Lisa," he said. "She said she was going to mail a photo to her mom."

He heard Lincoln groan. "How about I just dress up as Santa and he takes a picture with me?" he suggested. "Her mom won't know the difference."

"Yeah, and where are you gonna get a Santa suit, Linc?" Michael asked, after considering it for a few seconds. "I don't think it's an option. We're gonna have to wait in line."

"This is ridiculous," Lincoln complained.

"Yeah, it is. But it's tradition. Come on."

Michael marched up to the line, followed by a reluctant Lincoln. "You know," Lincoln said, "there's a reason Lisa sent us on this mission. She didn't want to wait in line, and she knew you'd do it."

Michael had a sneaking suspicion that Lincoln was right, but he felt compelled to defend Lisa anyway. "She had to work, Lincoln," he said.

"She doesn't work tomorrow," he replied.

"Yeah, but she probably doesn't want to spend her one day off in line," Michael said.

"Oh, and I do?" Lincoln said.

"You have all kinds of days off," Michael said. "Since you don't work at the Safeway anymore."

"Just because I don't have a time clock doesn't mean I'm not busy, Michael," Lincoln said acidly. He patted his pocket absently, and Michael felt his heart jump.

"Lincoln, come on. Not with LJ here," he said.

"Relax, Michael," Lincoln replied. "I'm not an idiot."

Michael bit his lip.

"Daddy?" LJ said.

"Yeah, LJ?" Lincoln asked.

"Santa?" LJ sounded excited.

"Yeah," Lincoln said. Michael could tell he was trying to sound cheerful, and failing miserably. "Santa. You know what you want for Christmas, right buddy?" Lincoln reached out, and Michael handed LJ to him.

The little boy nodded. "Ninja Tuwtles!"

"Mommy got a TV, huh?" Lincoln asked. LJ nodded, and Lincoln sighed.

"Bet there's all kinds of things you want that Daddy can't afford," he said.

"Santa!" LJ said.

"Yeah, Santa," Lincoln said. "We'll see what he says about this."

The wait seemed to take forever. LJ ended up falling asleep on Lincoln's shoulder.

"Damn. He's even heavier when he falls asleep," Lincoln complained, shifting his son's weight.

"That's because he's not helping you out," Michael said. "We're almost there. You better wake him up so he doesn't have imprints from your jacket in his face in the pictures."

"Yeah. I'm sure Lisa would love that," Lincoln said. He shifted LJ's weight again. "Hey, LJ. Buddy, wake up. It's almost time to see Santa."

LJ blinked a few times and lifted his head off of his father's shoulder. "Santa?" he said.

"Yeah. Look, you're next," Michael said.

One of the photographers, dressed as an elf, came up to them. "Name?" she asked Michael.

"He's LJ," Michael said.

Lincoln handed LJ to Michael and dug out his wallet as the 'elf'' led him to Santa. The man held out his arms. "Hello, LJ," Santa said.

LJ's eyes were wide as Michael put him down on Santa's lap. "Santa?" he asked, looking at Michael for confirmation.

"Uh huh," Michael replied with a nod. "Tell him what you want for Christmas, LJ."

LJ stared at the Santa, and the man repeated, "What do you want for Christmas, LJ?"

"Ninja Tuwtle!" LJ said, and he sounded frustrated. Well, Michael mused, he had said it three times. He was probably sick of repeating himself. Michael bit back a smile.

"Ninja Turtle," Santa said. "I bet we can do that." He smiled at LJ. "Now, how about you smile for the camera?"

But LJ didn't smile. One of the elves held up a stuffed toy and shook it a little. "LJ!" she called.

LJ stuck out his lower lip. Michael heard Lincoln groan, and he knew why. LJ was not far from throwing a temper tantrum here.

"Here," Michael said. "Hey, LJ, I have a question for you."

LJ looked up at him, still frowning.

"Can you name the Ninja Turtles for me?" he asked. LJ knew the names of them all, and he loved to prove it to other people. "Come on. There's…"

"Donatewo, Michaelano, Rafel, and Lenado!" LJ said, and out came a big grin. Michael let out a sigh of relief.

"Hey, LJ," Lincoln called from near the camera. LJ looked towards his father's voice, and the camera snapped.

"All right!" one of the elves called enthusiastically. Santa handed LJ back to Michael, who carried him back out to where Lincoln was waiting.

"Good job," one of the elves said to him.

"Thanks," Michael said. "I've had some practice."

She smiled at him, and then went back to the line to collect the next kid. Lincoln clapped him on the back.

"Saves the day, huh, Mike?" he said.

"Thankfully," Michael replied. "Here. Take him. I'm gonna go get the photos."

Lincoln took LJ from Michael, who walked over to collect the photos from where they were printed. He thanked the 'elf' who handed them over in a clear envelope, and brought them back over to Lincoln.

"Not bad," he said.

"Yeah. He looks happy," Lincoln said, sounding surprised.

"Yep. Only we'll know the truth of how close we were to disaster," Michael said. He looked at LJ, and smiled slightly, shaking his head.

"He's asleep again," he said.

"I could tell," Lincoln replied, with a mock grunt.

"Let's go home," Michael said.

"Sounds like a plan."


	15. Chapter 15

Watching Michael and LJ open their gifts, all he could think about was how he'd afforded those gifts. LJ ran to him, holding out a toy that was secured with miles of packaging for him to undo, then ran off to open another present as he worked at it. Veronica toyed with the necklace he'd bought her.

"You like it, right?" he asked, letting the tiniest bit of insecurity seep through. He managed to rip open the plastic container, but the toy was still crammed inside.

"You know I do," she said. She tilted her head up and kissed him. "I was just wondering how you paid for it." That, she whispered right in his ear.

"I'm glad," he said, ignoring her implied question. He finally pried the toy free, and threw the packaging behind the couch. "Here, LJ!" he said, holding out the action figure.

He'd made Michael swear he wouldn't tell Veronica OR Lisa that he was selling for Crab again. Not Lisa because she'd want some of the money, and Lincoln couldn't afford that, and not Vee, because she'd have a fit.

"Seriously?" Veronica said, looking at Michael. "You just got him a pair of jeans?" She sounded frustrated.

"Oh, shit," Lincoln said as he looked at Michael, who was looking at his one apparent gift. Of course, being Michael, he'd never complain that there were multiple boxes for LJ and only one for him…no, Vee would have to point that out. "Michael, your other present's in the closet."

"What?" he said.

"Seriously. Go look," Lincoln said. He was pretty proud of himself for this one; he'd crammed it in there, defying physics, mere minutes before Veronica showed up with Michael and a few cartons of Chinese food. At least he'd remembered all the gifts; he couldn't help that he'd forgotten to cook, right?"

Michael walked over to the closet, shooting glances at Lincoln. "Is it going to bite me or something?" he asked.

"Hardly," Lincoln replied. "I didn't buy you a hooker."

"Lincoln!" Veronica protested.

"Well?" Lincoln said. "It might fall, though. Watch your head."

He watched as Michael cautiously opened the door. His brother's reaction was totally worth it.

"Whoa!" Michael said, sounding totally excited. "You got me a bike?"

"You said you wanted one," Lincoln replied.

"Yeah, but that was wishful thinking," Michael replied, pulling it carefully from its tipped up position in the closet. "Holy crap! This is really nice!" His mouth was hanging open just a little bit as he examined the bike, looking over the brakes and the tires and the chain with something akin to awe.

"You like it?" Lincoln asked, knowing it was a rhetorical question.

"Uh, yeah," Michael replied. He ran his hand over the handlebars lightly, and shook his head. "Thanks, Linc."

Lincoln nodded, and then he felt Veronica lean in and kiss him again.

"You know, Linc," she said, "you're a pretty good guy."

Lincoln smiled at her.

"Daddy!" LJ cried, running up to him with another toy package. "Open!"

"Yeah, okay," he said.

It wasn't a bad Christmas at all. 

………….

"Hey, take a walk," Crab called over his shoulder to his girl. She nodded and grabbed her pack of smokes off the table, disappearing into the hallway. Lincoln barely looked at her as she passed.

Crab sniffed, and jerked his head towards the living room. Silently, Lincoln followed him inside. He watched as Crab plopped onto a cruddy old couch and lit up a cigarette. Finally, the man spoke.

"You got my money, Burrows?" Crab asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln replied, digging in his pocket. He pulled out a roll of bills, and plopped it down next to the ashtray on the table in front of Crab. Crab flipped through it, counting so fast that Lincoln could hardly see the denominations of the bills as they whizzed by.

"Alright," he said, looking at Lincoln. "The usual amount?"

Lincoln nodded, holding back a sigh. Crab stood, taking the money with him into one of the other rooms of the apartment. When he returned, he was holding a couple of bags. Lincoln took them and tucked them into the inside pockets of his jacket, making sure it still lay flat against his chest.

"You know how it works. I want my money in two Fridays," Crab said.

"I know," Lincoln replied.

Crab nodded once. Lincoln nodded back and showed himself the door.

He stepped outside and saw Crab's girlfriend leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. The woman looked at him out of the corner of her eye, but didn't say anything, just blew smoke up to the ceiling. Lincoln nodded at her uncomfortably. She gave him the barest nod back as he started down the stairs and out into the street.

He and Crab…in high school, he never would have thought this would be his life. Crab had been a junior when Lincoln was a freshman, and he worked with his older brother, running drugs. Then his brother got shot and died, and Crab dropped out of school and took over.

Lincoln HAD been jealous of Crab. He had way more than Lincoln and Michael had. Like a family, for one thing. And now, if he was honest…well, he was still jealous of Crab.

Yeah, he knew Crab dealt with people who were even more shady than himself, and that he had to watch his back every time he left his house, but the man had a warm apartment and plenty of food, things he'd probably never had to do without.

Yeah, well, Lincoln thought, giving himself a mental smack in the head, no good wishing. Some people just had all the luck…and his family wasn't like that. Period.

He patted his pockets again, and headed for the bus stop. He had a couple of places he had to be, and soon.

………

He swore as the key got stuck in the lock. "Cheap ass shit," he mumbled. Finally, the door opened, and he entered.

LJ was sitting on the floor, playing with a dump truck. "Daddy!" he yelled, jumping up from the floor and propelling himself into his father's legs.

"Hey, LJ," Lincoln said, reaching down and picking up his son, who practically cracked his skull against Lincoln's shoulder. Shit. LJ wasn't supposed to be here; he wouldn't have come home high if he'd have known LJ was here. "Michael?"

"In here," Michael said from the kitchen. Lincoln sniffed; he could smell spaghetti sauce. He put LJ back down, and the boy went back to his truck.

"What's LJ doing here?" he asked. "I thought Lisa didn't work tonight." He walked around the corner and into the kitchen.

"Uh, she doesn't," Michael said, stirring the sauce with a little too much concentration. "She had a date."

"What?" Lincoln asked.

Then Michael looked up. His eyes widened as he took in Lincoln's glassy eyes. He sniffed slightly, and Lincoln wondered if he could really smell the weed on him. "Oh," he said. "I, uh…I didn't know." He looked slightly guilty.

"Yeah, me either," Lincoln replied with a dry laugh. "She had a date?"

"That's what she said. She begged me to watch him," Michael replied. He bit his lip unconsciously. "I couldn't say no."

"Why not?" Lincoln asked, leaning against the counter and looking at Michael.

"Uh…'cause you're dating Veronica again?" Michael said. "It wasn't like I was doing anything anyway." Michael turned back to the spaghetti sauce.

"Yeah, but I didn't know he was gonna be here, Michael. I wouldn't have come home like this," Lincoln said.

"Why not?" Michael asked. "He's not even three years old yet. He won't remember."

Lincoln stared at Michael.

"Plus," Michael added, "I turned out okay, and you came home like this all the time. Still do." He took the sauce off the heat.

"You little shit," Lincoln said, not completely sure how to react to what his brother was saying.

"Strain the spaghetti, would you?" Michael said, completely unfazed. He raised his voice slightly. "LJ! Dinnertime!"

"NO!" LJ cried. "Wanna play!" 

"After," Michael said. "It's spaghetti. You like it. Come on." Michael walked over to the table and pulled out LJ's chair, the one that always had a phone book on it. "Sit."

Lincoln sighed, and used a clean plate as a make-do strainer. Yeah, Michael had turned out okay, all things considered. He plopped piles of spaghetti on three plates and let Michael cover them with the sauce. He took his and LJ's, letting Michael grab his own.

He leaned down over LJ to put his plate down. LJ stuck his nose up against Lincoln's shirt and sniffed.

"What are you doing?" Lincoln asked, pulling away and sitting down. LJ picked up his kiddie fork and attacked the spaghetti without saying anything. It was Michael who answered.

"He thinks you smell good, Linc," Michael said.

Lincoln could hear him holding back the laughter.

"One more word," Lincoln said, pointing his fork at his brother.

"You remember this thirteen years from now," Michael said, and then cracked up.

Lincoln shook his head, not sure if he should laugh or get mad. His mouth twitched, though, and he was pretty sure that he was going to at least smirk. "You should be glad that I'm high enough that that is funny," he replied, stabbing his spaghetti.

………… 

"We have to get him a birthday present Lincoln," Michael said.

"I know that," Lincoln said. "How bad of a father do you think I am? No, don't answer that." He really didn't have the money, but Michael was right. It was his son's third birthday; only a really shitty father wouldn't have a gift for his kid.

"I wasn't going to say—" Michael protested.

"Are you going to help me pick it out?" Lincoln asked. He'd decided. He'd just have to go get the money from Crab. Crab had been willing to front him some cash before, as long as he paid it back. And he would; he always did.

"Yeah, of course," Michael said. "But I thought you said—" 

"Just do me a favor," Lincoln said. "Keep your head down and your mouth shut, all right?"

Michael blinked. "Uh…yeah. Okay," he said.

"Okay. Come on. We need to catch the bus."

…

He could tell Michael was nervous. "Don't be nervous," he said. "Just be quiet."

Michael nodded and kept staring at the toes of his shoes. Lincoln held back a sigh. It had been a bad idea to bring him with. Quicker, yes. But still, a bad idea. Because sometimes Michael acted like he was forty…and sometimes, he was more like a ten year old. It was hit or miss.

"We'll be out of here in ten minutes," he said. "Less, probably."

Michael nodded again as they entered Crab's apartment building and climbed the stairs. Lincoln knocked on the door.

"Yeah?" he heard Crab call.

"It's Burrows," Lincoln said.

"Hey 'Tecia, take a walk," he heard Crab say as the door opened. Crab's eyes went to Michael as his girlfriend slipped past them all and out the door. "What, you're bringing your kids now?" he asked.

"He's not here," Lincoln replied. "Just ignore him."

Crab raised his eyebrows. "All right," he said slowly. He let them inside the apartment and shut the door before asking, "So, what do you want, Burrows?"

"Can you front me some cash?" Lincoln asked.

"How much are we talking here?" Crab asked.

"Small change," Lincoln replied. "Hundred. That's it."

Crab raised his eyebrows again. "That's it? Shit. Ask me a hard one." He looked at Lincoln. "But I want two hundred percent back, since it's all small change."

Lincoln nodded once. "I can do that," he said.

"You know it'll be a cut out of your next—"

"I'll do it," Lincoln said, cutting him off. He didn't want Michael, the king of small details, to hear any more details than he had to. Crab smirked at him.

"All right, then. Be right back."

Crab turned and went back into the back bedroom. Lincoln spared a side glance for Michael, who was pale as a ghost. "You okay, Mike?" he asked quietly. His brother gave one short nod.

Shit. He was obviously not okay.

Crab came back out and handed him five twenties. "I'll see you next Friday, Burrows," he said.

Lincoln nodded. Crab gestured at the door, and Lincoln opened it, ushering Michael out. They passed Crab's girlfriend, who was standing in her usual place, smoking her usual cigarette.

Lincoln didn't say anything until they were back on the street. "Michael—"

"Please," Michael said, cutting him off. "Please tell me that all you're selling is weed." Michael's voice was so low Lincoln could barely hear him. He stopped dead.

"What?" he said, his heart jumping in his chest.

"I'm not blind, Lincoln. LLI? Remember?" Michael said, in that same, so-quiet voice. "I know he sells way more than just weed."

Lincoln didn't realize he'd grabbed Michael until he had him pushed up against the wall of the building, their faces only a few inches apart. "Don't," he said.

"You selling something else?" Michael whispered. "Because I might not do drugs, but I know you'll get a lot more for any of the other stuff I saw in there than you will for weed. Is that how you're making enough money that we could have Christmas? And a phone, and heat, and clothes?"

Lincoln could see tears in Michael's eyes.

"Michael. Michael, please," Lincoln pleaded. His hands were on Michael's shoulders, and he couldn't decide if he wanted to embrace his brother or shake him. "I'm doing what I have to, to take care of you and LJ. Don't you understand that?" His voice broke, to his horror. He swallowed hard.

Michael just looked at him for a long moment, then finally nodded again. "Got it," he whispered, and his voice only trembled slightly. "Just weed."

"Right," Lincoln replied shakily. He let go of Michael's shoulders.

"Come on," Michael said, sniffing a couple of times. "We have to get LJ's present." He turned and started down the sidewalk again, ahead of Lincoln. Watching his back, Lincoln couldn't tell if he was crying or not, and he was grateful.

"Yeah," Lincoln replied. "Yeah. Let's go."

……….

LJ's birthday party was at Lisa's apartment, because as she'd put it, "There's barely room for three people at yours," and Lincoln had to concede she was right. It was okay with him; that way, he, Michael, and Vee wouldn't be stuck cleaning it up.

Lisa's boyfriend, a guy named Peter, was nice enough, Lincoln had to admit. He didn't seem overly interested in LJ, but then again, why would he be? LJ wasn't his kid.

"Hey LJ," Veronica said. "Your daddy's present is over here." She gestured at the large wrapped gift behind her.

Lincoln hadn't wanted to wrap it, but he'd been overruled by Michael and Veronica. "He's three, Linc," Vee had said. "Unwrapping is half the fun."

"Plus, if you don't wrap it, he might not realize it's a birthday present," Michael had said. So he'd struggled to wrap the damn thing. It had taken almost two rolls of paper, and way too much tape. Veronica had managed to restrained her giggles at the sight; Michael hadn't bothered to try.

"I'd like to see you do better," he'd retorted.

And somehow, they had. With one roll of wrapping paper, and minimal tape. He'd just humphed and carried it out to Veronica's car.

Watching LJ rip into it, he poked Veronica in the ribs. "See? It doesn't even matter how it was wrapped. He's just shredding the hell out of the paper anyway," he said.

"Yeah, but I'm sure Lisa would have had something to say about the other wrapping job," Veroinica said.

"Yeah, like, 'Was he high?'" Michael said into his other ear. Lincoln elbowed Michael, who moved out of the way.

"Whoa!" LJ yelled. "It a bike!" He looked down at the tricycle that Lincoln and Michael had chosen with shining eyes. "Look, Michael! Like you!"

"Yeah, just like mine," Michael said, going over to LJ. "It's red, too, see? Just like mine."

"Whoa!"

As Michael helped LJ get all the wrapping paper clear of the tricycle and figure out how to work it, Lincoln sighed.

"Not bad, Dad," he heard Veronica say quietly into his ear as they watched them.

He swallowed a sigh. God, he hoped not.


	16. Chapter 16

Michael knew Lincoln was selling harder stuff. He knew it. Yeah, he'd said okay, just weed to placate Lincoln, but he wasn't blind, and he sure as hell wasn't stupid. He had to be selling other stuff.

At least he wasn't using it, right? Michael tried to comfort himself with that thought, that he wasn't using it.

Which was good, the last thing he (or LJ) needed was Lincoln strung out on something, but…he shook his head.

As he left the school, he looked towards the corner where Crab's guys stood. Right off the school grounds, easy access. They sold for him too, and he knew they didn't just sell weed…and those guys were high schoolers. High schoolers selling to high schoolers, mostly, at least. So what was the chances that Lincoln was actually JUST selling weed? 

"What you looking at, man?" one of the guys called out. "You wanna come over here?"

Michael shook his head and slouched, heading towards the bus stop. He could hear them mumbling to each other.

Not good at all.

………..

"Wanna go to the park!" LJ whined again. "Pleeeeease!"

Michael sighed. Really, it wasn't that he didn't want to take LJ to the park. It was more that he was worried about Lincoln, who hadn't showed up last night, and he hadn't seen today either. He wanted to stay home, in case he showed up. But LJ was understandably bored, crammed into their apartment, and it wasn't like Michael was going to unload his worries on his three year old nephew.

"Okay," he said, reluctantly. "Get your shoes on." LJ was in a 'do it myself' stage; actually letting him put on his own shoes would kill a good fifteen minutes or so, and maybe Lincoln would show up before they left. Maybe. Or maybe he could call Veronica again, and see if she'd seen him. But then she'd know he was worried…that wouldn't be any good…but he was too worried not to. And they had a phone, so he might as well. He stood up and walked over to the phone, dialing her number.

She picked up on the third ring. "Hello?" she said.

"Hey Veronica. It's Michael," he said.

"Michael, hi," she said.

"Have you seen Lincoln recently?" he asked.

"How recently?" Veronica asked. Shit. That was not a good question, because that meant she realized he was worried.

"Uh…within the last two days or so?" Michael asked.

"Saw him two nights ago," she said.

"Thanks Vee," Michael said.

"Michael," Veronica said, but Michael hung up the phone.

So…where had he been last night? And today? Why wasn't he back home by mid-afternoon? Michael didn't know if he was being paranoid or not. With Lincoln, you couldn't be sure. What you thought was paranoid could be dead truth.

The phone rang again, but Michael didn't get it. It was just Veronica, he was sure. He didn't want to talk to her. After four rings, it went silent, which further confirmed his suspicions. They didn't have an answering machine; Lincoln would let it ring for an ungodly amount of time before hanging up when he called home.

Michael tapped his fingertips anxiously against the countertop. Where was Lincoln? He stared anxiously at LJ, who was struggling to put his shoes on.

Suddenly, he heard a key in the lock.

"Linc?" he called.

"Mike?" Lincoln said. The door flew open, and Lincoln stumbled inside, both hands loaded down with paper grocery bags.

"Where have you been?" Michael asked. He didn't mean to sound like a nagging mother, but somehow, the words came out that way. Lincoln gave him a look as he put the bags down. LJ had jumped to his feet and ran towards his father.

"Daddy!" he yelled.

"Hey buddy," Lincoln said, patting the top of his son's head as LJ wrapped his arms around Lincoln's legs. He turned his attention back to his brother. "I was getting some stuff. You have a problem with that?"

Michael looked suspiciously at the paper bags. They were from Cub Foods. They didn't shop at Cub. Rainbow was cheaper.

"What's in the bags, Linc?" Michael asked, taking a step towards his brother. Lincoln reached down and picked up the bags again.

"Don't worry about it," Lincoln replied, pushing past Michael. He nearly knocked LJ over in his haste, and the little boy started to cry.

"Hey, it's okay LJ," Michael said. He picked up his nephew, who was rubbing the top of his head where Lincoln had accidentally bumped him with one of the grocery bags. "Daddy didn't mean to bump you." He kissed LJ's hair, and looked accusingly at Lincoln. At least, he thought, the man had the decency to look guilty.

"I'm sorry, LJ," he said.

"Put your shoes on," Michael said, putting LJ down. "Then we'll go to the park, okay?"

LJ nodded, and ran back over to his shoes, plopping eagerly to the floor. Lincoln disappeared deep into the kitchen. Michael rounded the corner, in time to see Lincoln folding over the tops of the bags and putting them in the cabinets over the refrigerator.

"Using the same old hiding spot, after all this time?" Michael asked, letting a touch of acid tinge his tone.

"Well, now I don't have to worry about you stumbling across it accidentally, do I?" Lincoln asked, equally acidic. Michael noted that he hadn't taken it out of the bag. "And LJ won't be able to get to it up there."

Michael wondered if he really, truly wanted to know. He could find out; it would only take a second. He could just open the cupboard, unfold a bag, and look inside. But if what was inside wasn't weed…could Michael really handle that?

Maybe it was just better not to know.

Lincoln looked at him, and just shook his head. "Don't think so damn much, Michael," he said roughly. "You're just gonna make yourself sick."

Lincoln knew him too well. Michael nodded.

"I'm gonna take LJ to the park," he said. "You, uh, you gonna come with?"

Lincoln shook his head. "I gotta get some sleep," he said, and Michael could see the lack in Lincoln's face and shoulders.

"Alright," he said.

He walked back out to where LJ was struggling with his shoes. "Let me help you, LJ," he said.

"NOOO!" LJ cried. "Wanna do it MYSELF!"

"You did your left one by yourself," Michael said, which was mostly true. He knelt and tied LJ's shoe quickly, then grabbed the other one. "Gimme your foot."

He wrangled it onto his nephew's foot and tied it. "All right. Now, let's go. Say bye to daddy."

"Bye Daddy!" LJ cried, jumping up and running to the door. Michael followed him.

"See you later, Linc," he said. "Be careful."

He heard Lincoln snort loudly from the kitchen as the door slammed shut.

…………………

When they got back a couple of hours later, Veronica was waiting in the apartment. Furniture and miscellaneous objects were strewn around the place. Michael stopped dead when he walked in the door.

"Where's Lincoln?" he asked, taking in the wreckage.

Veronica's lips pursed in that way they always did when she had unpleasant news to deliver, news that she wished she wasn't. He shook his head slowly. "No, Veronica. No."

"It wasn't as bad as it could have been," she said. "He didn't have anything on him. It was a plain fight."

"A fight? With who?" Michael asked. He felt LJ's small hands latch around his leg, and he looked down at the top of his nephew's head.

"Derrick came over. He was very drunk, and he said some things…that I suppose I wasn't suppose to hear. And he and Lincoln got into it…" Veronica shook her head. "Derrick bolted out of here with bags and bags of something, and a couple minutes later, the cops showed up. They arrested Lincoln."

Michael felt like he'd been punched; he couldn't seem to find his breath.

"I heard them say they were arresting him for assault; nothing about drug charges," Veronica said. 'It could be simple…" She trailed off.

"Where's Daddy?" LJ asked, looking up at Michael.

Michael met his nephew's gaze. "He went out for a little bit," Michael said. His voice shook slightly, and he prayed that neither Vee nor LJ noticed. "Okay?"

LJ nodded trustingly, but Veronica shot him a look. He shrugged. What else could he say? Three years old was not old enough to know the truth. It just wasn't.

Veronica sighed. "You guys wanna come over to my apartment for tonight?" she asked. "Lisa can take LJ after that, I'm assuming, and as for you—"

"Once we find out what's gonna happen to Lincoln, can we decide what's going to happen to me?" Michael asked, thinking. He'd be fine, no matter what happened to Lincoln. Worse came to worse, if Vee wouldn't help him, he'd run away. He wasn't going back into the system though, that was for sure. He flinched slightly, those images still vivid four years later. He wondered if they'd ever really fade.

Veronica nodded. "Pack your stuff, Michael," she said. She crouched down and beckoned to LJ. "We're gonna have a sleepover tonight, LJ. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

LJ nodded and walked over to her. She tickled him, and he giggled.

"Yeah. It's gonna be a lot of fun," Veronica said, still tickling him.

Michael thought about Lincoln. Why hadn't he been careful? Why did he mess everything up like this?

Well, Michael had said this was okay—but not anymore. He was going to tell Lincoln to stop it. They'd figure out a way to make it without him selling harder stuff. He was nearly fifteen. He'd get a job; he could help. There were other ways to do this. Because Michael was so sick of this.

…………

"No, Lincoln," Michael said. "I have a job now. You just spent an ungodly amount of time behind bars. We'll make it without you selling that harder stuff, do you hear me?"

Lincoln raised his eyebrows. "Wait a second. You think that YOU are going to tell ME what I can do?" Lincoln poked Michael in the chest with his index finger.

Michael stood his ground; he could tell Lincoln wasn't really angry, exactly…more like perturbed.

"While you were there, I turned fifteen. I got a job. I've been saving, because Veronica wouldn't let me help with the rent. I can help you. So you can stick with a legal job. Please, Lincoln." He was truly begging. But all he really, really wanted was for Lincoln to be safe, to stop going back and forth to lockup and leaving him half-stranded, but for Veronica's kindness, which was bound to run out eventually.

"Michael—"

"Please, Lincoln! For LJ and me, please? I…please." He heard his voice crack embarrassingly, as it hadn't since he was thirteen years old, and he blushed. He could feel tears in his eyes, but he blinked them back, knowing that they wouldn't help his cause any.

Lincoln stared at him for a long time.

"I ain't gonna let you do that," Lincoln said. They were standing face to face, less than a foot away from each other. Michael could feel Lincoln's breath on his face when he exhaled, exasperated.

"Yes, you are," Michael replied. "Because I'm not gonna let you sell that stuff anymore. Please, Linc."

Their eyes were \linked, greenish-blue and hazel eyes locked in a long, hard stare. Michael bit his lip slightly, but didn't look away. Please, he thought, hoping his brother would see his silent plea. Please. His heart hammered in his chest.

Lincoln shook his head, and dropped his hands roughly on Michael's shoulder's. "Alright. Fine. I'll let you help, you miserable little shit. But I swear to God, Michael. You better be just as brilliant as always in school and all that shit, or else I'm gonna—" He squeezed Michael's shoulders slightly. Michael couldn't decide if he was threatening him or what. It didn't matter. 

Michael nodded. "All right," he said. He grabbed Lincoln's forearm with his hand and squeezed back.

And then Lincoln released him, and the moment of brotherly bonding was over. "We still have a phone?" Lincoln asked, walking towards said item on the counter. Lincoln picked up the stack of take-out menus next to it and started to flip through them.

"Yeah," Michael said. He'd paid the bill over the last months; it had been very cheap since no one had been here to use it. "Why?"

"Let's order Chinese food," Lincoln suggested. "I haven't had good fried rice for ages."

Yeah. Lincoln was back.


	17. Chapter 17

Michael hated this job. Passionately. Completely. There were no redeeming qualities to working at a fast food restaurant. At first, he'd thought that free food would help, at least a little, but now he couldn't stomach a French fry or hamburger if someone put a gun to his head, so that was out. No. This job was just awful.

And, shortly after he was hired, he found out he was one of four people who worked there who spoke English as his first language. So now…well, his Spanish was improving, out of sheer necessity, because the other employees only spoke English to the customers. All the jokes and the simple, enjoyable bits of conversation were always in Spanish. And Michael was learning.

"Dos hamburguesas con queso, por favor!" Michael called over his shoulder to the grill. Carmen, who was working the grill, nodded at him

Another employee came up. "Get out of the way," she hissed at him in Spanish. "You're slow! Go stock the grill or something!" Then she pasted on a big fake smile and in English, asked the next customer how she could help him.

Michael sighed and headed towards the stockroom. He could handle that. He didn't like working the cash register anyway.

He glanced at his watch. Only three more hours until his shift was over, and he could go home. God, did he ever want to go home.

……………

Michael double-checked the answer on his homework; yes, it was correct. Simple answer, to a fairly simple question. Everyone else in his class was always moaning about how tough Calculus was, but it seemed pretty straight-forward to him. He moved on to the next question.

He heard the key in the lock, and looked up. Lincoln came in, and Michael could see that he was tired. More than tired. Exhausted.

"You okay Linc?" he asked.

Lincoln shut and locked the door behind him before letting his jacket fall to the floor. He groaned a little, and Michael had a momentary flash of that time, years ago, when Lincoln had come in, bleeding and broken. "Lincoln?" he repeated more forcefully, wondering if maybe he'd been hurt or something.

"I'm fine," Lincoln said. He cracked his neck, then looked at Michael. "Why?"

Michael realized he'd stood up. He sat back down, feeling a little sheepish. "You look kind of…"

"I'm fucking tired, Michael," Lincoln said. "This whole legitimate job thing? It's a bitch." He half-smiled at his brother, but Michael knew that Lincoln wasn't remotely kidding.

"Yeah," Michael replied. "I know." He nudged his visor from McDonald's, where he'd dropped it on the table when he came in. "I've got one too, remember?"

"Yeah, well…try two," Lincoln said. "And a pair of kids."

Michael felt that guilt hit him in the stomach again, like a lead weight. Was he asking too much of Lincoln? Really? He didn't know. He hated his one job…and if he had another? Plus LJ? And if he had to take care of himself, with all the food he ate and the stuff he needed? The guilt washed over him in waves.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, looking down at his textbook. Equations blurred in front of his eyes.

Lincoln just sighed and walked to the fridge. He grabbed a beer, then plopped down on their couch.

"What are you sorry for, Michael?" Lincoln asked. He sounded confrontational, and Michael wasn't sure why. Had he done something.

"I don't know," Michael replied. He peered at his brother as Lincoln took a rather angry swig from the bottle.

"Don't go apologizing just for fucking existing, Mike," Lincoln said. His eyes locked on Michael's for a moment. "Okay?"

Michael nodded, and Lincoln leaned his head back against the couch, sighing again. Michael leaned back over his homework.

He might not apologize for it…but he could do something to help his brother. There had to be a better job. One that paid more. Or he could get another job? He could do it; Michael didn't have to spend much time at all studying, so he could find a second job. Or…

His hand flew over the page, mechanically writing down and solving his Calculus problems, but his mind was eons away, working on much bigger and more important problems.

……………………

Michael doodled absently in the margin of his notebook. Another job? Hah! He couldn't even get more hours at the job he had! And he'd tried; he'd begged his manager to extend his hours.

"I got twenty people who want more hours, kid," she'd said. "You ain't got a snowball's chance in hell. You just fifteen; what'cha gonna do with more hours anyway?" 

Michael had tried to explain that he needed it, to help Lincoln pay the bills, so that LJ could have electricity, heat, water, but Paula was unsympathetic.

"You ain't the only one with a sob story, Michael," she said. "This part of Chicago, everybody be scrapin' to make ends meet. Don't you know that?"

And when he applied for other jobs, he started to understand why Lincoln had turned to selling drugs. You didn't need five million pieces of paper proving who you were and that it was legal for you to do this, that, and whatever else just to get in the door. No one wanted references, which Michael didn't really have, or previous experience. And then, there was the fact that you made way more than minimum wage. Because honestly, what good was minimum wage, trying to feed, house, and clothe three people? Michael had never truly realized how expensive it was just to live until he'd gotten a job and started trying to budget the money coming in between him and Lincoln.

The bell rang, and Michael grabbed his notebook and stuffed it in his backpack. He'd been thinking for awhile, about this, and it seemed like a smarter thing, if he did it.

After all, he was still a kid. If he ended up in juvie, well…he could survive that. Maybe he wasn't as tough or as street smart as Lincoln had been, but he could learn if he had to. And he didn't have a record. So, unlike Linc, it wouldn't be five years. It would only be a little while. A couple months, max.

He could make a sacrifice for his family. And they needed the money, because all the bills were coming on pink paper this month, with the FINAL NOTICE! warning written in bold print across the top. They had to be paid, or the Burrows/Scofield family was going to be shivering in a cold, dark, waterless apartment come the twentieth of the month.

He'd take the bus this afternoon, before heading home. Lincoln worked late on Tuesdays anyway.

…………………….

He remembered Crab's apartment from before, and climbed the stairs. His heart was beating fast, but he forced himself to breathe. They needed the money, he reminded himself. Plenty of other people did it, and he could too. He ran through all the reasons it was safer that he do it than Lincoln in his head again. And then he raised his fist, and knocked on the door, three raps.

"Yeah?" he heard through the door. Crab's voice. He remembered what his brother had said.

"It's Burrows," Michael replied, borrowing his brother's name. So he wasn't a Burrows…but what could it hurt?

Michael heard footsteps approaching the door. "The fuck it is," he heard Crab's voice say, and then a low chuckle. Michael could practically see the man peering through the peephole. "Oh. The mini version."

The door opened, and Crab was leaning in the doorway, looking at him. "What do you want, mini-Burrows?" he asked.

Michael forced himself not to bite at his lip. "I wanna talk business," he said quietly.

Crab raised one eyebrow. "Business?" he said, and his voice changed from joking to quizzical in an instant.

"Yeah," Michael replied.

"Your brother put you up to this?" Crab asked. He stuck his head out into the hallway, as if he was looking for Lincoln's imposing presence.

Michael shook his head. "No," Michael replied.

He saw Crab hesitate for just a second, then move out of the doorway. "Get in here, little Burrows," he said. "You and me got some talking to do."

…………………

Michael carefully loaded the bags into the bottom of his backpack. Crab had explained everything to him, and had seemed pleased when Michael had recited it back, practically verbatim.

"You're a smart fuck, huh?" he said. "Smarter'n that brother of yours."

Michael didn't say anything to that, but Crab had nodded. "Load it up," he'd said.

Michael had never seen these drugs before, except in photos in textbooks maybe. But in little plastic bags, measured out in grams, with prices that were mind-boggling? No, he'd never seen these drugs like that.

Cautiously, he rearranged his notebooks and textbooks on top of the sweater he'd used to cushion the bags full of drugs. The last thing he needed was for one of those bags to break in his backpack. He zipped up his bag.

"All right, kid," Crab said. "I want my money in two Fridays. I don't get it, and there's gonna be hell to pay. And not even your brother is gonna be able to save you from that, you hear me?"

Michael nodded. "I'll get it to you," he said.

"I believe it," Crab said. Michael pulled his backpack onto his shoulders and headed for the door.

………………………

Michael knocked on the door again.

"Yeah?" he heard Crab call.

"It's Burrows," he said.

"Mini-Burrows," Crab said. The door opened, and Crab gestured at him to come inside. The door shut, and Crab nodded towards the coffee table. "You got my money, boy?"

Michael slipped his backpack off his shoulders and opened it, pulling out a manilla envelope. He tossed it on the table in front of Crab.

Crab picked it up and opened it, shaking cash onto the table. Michael watched as his dry brown hands quickly sorted and counted the bills. The man nodded, and when he looked up at Michael again, it was with a satisfied smirk.

"Not bad, little Burrows. Not bad," he said.

He counted out a pile of money and handed it to Michael, who quickly put it deep into his backpack.

"You want more merchandise, kid?" he asked.

Michael took a deep breath. During the past two weeks, he'd been more afraid and done more dangerous and downright stupid things than he'd ever done in his life…but that wad of cash was going to fix all their money problems. They needed it. It would fix everything.

"Yeah," Michael said.

Crab smirked. "Hang on a second," he said.

………………..

As he left the building and headed towards the bus stop, Michael's heart pounded like a drum. Now…now, he had done something illegal. Something criminal. And he was going to keep doing it. Jeez.

Living up to the family name? Maybe he was a Burrows after all.

He shook his head at the highly uncharitable thought.


	18. Chapter 18

The money seemed to be stretching farther lately. He looked at Michael, who was hunched over a notebook, scribbling frantically.

"What are you working on, Mike?" he asked.

"Huh?" Michael asked. "Oh, the budget." He sounded a little absentminded, as if Lincoln had caught him in the middle of something.

"Since when do we have a budget?" Lincoln asked.

"I've been doing this since I got a job," Michael replied. "It helps me figure out where we spend our money."

"Well, that's a real surprise," Lincoln replied sarcastically. "LJ. Rent. Food. Heat. Electricity. Water. Occasionally, a phone…we've had a phone for three months in a row now, you know. That's got to be a record."

"Hmm. The power of budgeting," Michael replied, still sounding distant. Lincoln stood up and made his way behind Michael to look over his shoulder.

Michael reacted by hunching over the notebook. "Don't!" he said.

"Why not? It's not like it's your fucking diary or something," Lincoln said.

"Why do you care?" Michael replied. "I'm taking care of it." His voice raised slightly.

Lincoln rolled his eyes. "Christ, Michael. Is it really that big a deal? Let me see the damn notebook."

"No!" Michael replied. He was vehement. Too vehement. Lincoln raised his eyebrows. Michael wasn't a hider, by nature…unless he was doing something that he shouldn't be. Unfortunately, it was a pattern he knew well.

"Michael Scofield, show me the fucking notebook," Lincoln said, reaching for it. Michael clutched it to his chest like a schoolgirl.

"Leave it alone!" Michael said.

Lincoln was tired of this. He grabbed Michael's arm and pulled, prying it away from the notebook. Then the notebook was in his hands, and Michael looked defeated, and slightly scared. Lincoln turned away from his brother and flipped it open.

There were neat columns, all labeled. In gibberish. "What the fuck?" Lincoln said, looking at the gobbley-gook printed in his brother's neat, square writing. "What does this mean?" He whirled back to face Michael.

"It's encoded," Michael said. Needlessly; Lincoln had figured that out.

But what he couldn't figure out is why Michael would need to code a budget. Because Lincoln knew where he worked and how much money he made, and he knew where Michael worked, and how much money he made, and where it was being spent…

And that was it. He didn't, really.

"You are going to explain this shit to me," Lincoln said. "The whole goddamn code, do you hear me?"

Michael shook his head. "I can't," he said. "It's too—" 

"Michael Scofield," Lincoln said, slapping the notebook down to the table. Michael's eyes widened slightly, and Lincoln couldn't help but think, Well, good. He wanted to hear the truth. "The whole goddamn thing," Lincoln repeated.

Michael just bit his lip. Lincoln could practically see him thinking. He was trying to find his way out of something. Which meant there was something he had to get out of.

"What's going on here?" Lincoln asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Spit it out. Now."

He stared at Michael. Michael, who was nearly as tall as he was now. The kid couldn't be more than three inches shorter than Lincoln. When the hell had that happened?

He could see Michael's hands starting to shake. Lincoln gritted his teeth. So he was scared. Really scared, if the adrenaline was kicking in hard enough that Lincoln could see his body reacting to it. And that meant that Lincoln should be even angrier than he already was, because whatever Michael was hiding was major.

"Michael, what the fuck are you hiding from me?" Lincoln asked. He tried to keep his voice calm. He failed spectacularly.

Then, the clue. Lincoln saw Michael's eyes dart away, for just a moment, and then back. He'd always been such a god-awful liar. Lincoln turned slightly, looking for what Michael had looked at.

The room was a mess. There was a pile of LJ's stuff in the corner, and another pile of dirty clothes close by that. The bed, the couch, Lincoln's jacket, Michael's backpack, shoes, a couple of textbooks...

Michael's backpack. No shit. Where else would the kid keep something that was his? Somewhere that Lincoln wouldn't look in a million years.

He turned away from Michael and took three long strides across the living room, towards Michael's backpack.

"Lincoln!" Michael cried desperately.

Lincoln grabbed Michael's backpack and unzipped the zipper. He turned it over the couch and gave it a couple harsh shakes.

Nothing could have prepared him for what fell out of that bag. The little baggies of white powder, packaged in a larger Ziploc. And he recognized that packaging signature. Crab.

He felt himself inhale sharply. Behind him, he heard Michael swallow.

He turned, and saw Michael's ashen face.

He was going to kill him.

………..

When the baggies fell to the couch, Michael felt his heart skip a beat.

When Lincoln turned to face him, it stopped completely. He felt the blood drain from his face.

"What. The. FUCK! IS! THIS!" Lincoln screamed, grabbing at the bags. Michael flinched as Lincoln threw them against the wall.

And then Lincoln was there, in a flash, practically on top of Michael. He had Michael's wrists in his hands, and Michael was shoved down against the table, his back pressed into the table top, Lincoln's weight holding him there. He could feel the spiral of his notebook pressing into the skin of his back, where his shirt had ridden up, and Lincoln's knee pressing into his leg. Michael gritted his teeth against the pain.

"You tell me to STOP!" Lincoln yelled, his face only inches from Michael's own, "and then you go out there and START?"

They were both breathing hard. Michael couldn't remember ever being so afraid in his entire life. Not even when his foster father had beaten him…not even when his foster father had died, had his heart beaten this fast. He wanted to explain, wanted to tell Lincoln why. Why it was better if he did it, not Lincoln. But he couldn't seem to make words form.

"I-I-I," Michael stuttered.

"You WHAT?" Lincoln yelled. He released Michael's wrists and grabbed his shoulders instead, his thumbs digging into Michael's collarbones so hard that Michael jerked. "WHAT?"

"I d-don't have a r-r-rec-cord," Michael managed to spit out, past the terror and the pain. "If I e-e-end up in j-j-juv—"

Lincoln's face twisted almost unrecognizably. "If you end up in JUVIE?" he screamed, and suddenly, he pulled Michael off the table and up to his feet. "YOU STUPID FUCK!"

Michael flinched, throwing his hands up. Lincoln's arms were in the way. "It was better than YOU be-be-being in j-jail! I was t-t-trying to help," he whispered past the lump in his throat.

He didn't see it coming, but he felt it land. His head snapped backwards from the impact of Lincoln's fist against his face, and his left eye seemed to explode, fireworks of lights and colors and pure, sheer pain. He staggered backwards until his back hit the kitchen counter.

Lincoln had hit him. Hit him, with his fist. He'd never done that before, ever. Certainly, Lincoln had spanked him, slapped him, grabbed him, even whipped him with his belt…he was a physical person, and that was how he punished. But never in his life had Lincoln punched him before.

"Lincoln," he whimpered in disbelief, covering his eye with his hand.

"YOU STUPID FUCK!" Lincoln yelled, advancing on him again. "I've done so much shit FOR YOU! To keep YOU out of trouble! And you're gonna do THIS?"

"Lincoln, no," Michael begged. Lincoln grabbed his arm hard and raised his fist again.

"You STUPID SHIT!" Lincoln yelled.

And as the blows rained down, Michael cowered.

…….

Suddenly, the haze cleared.

Lincoln looked down at Michael, who was huddled on the floor, his arms shielding his head. His sides were heaving as he choked on his sobs.

Oh God. He'd done this to Michael. He could see the bruises forming on his brother's back where his shirt had ridden up; the bruises forming on his arms. He could see more bruise than fresh skin. Christ.

Lincoln backed away from his brother, looking around desperately. His eyes landed on those Ziploc bags, filled with the small baggies full of white powder.

He snatched them up, then went into the kitchen and grabbed a paper bag and tossed them inside. He was going to get rid of that shit. Now. Michael was too good for that kind of shit. He was not going to end up like Lincoln; a nobody, a nothing. Michael was going to make something of himself. He was going to stay good, stay off the streets. He was going to be somebody, with a real job, and a finished education. Somebody better than his brother.

He looked back at Michael, still huddled on the floor, sobbing quietly.

God. What had he done? He didn't know what to do, suddenly. He'd beaten up his own brother. Beaten him up, like he was some guy he'd gotten in a bar brawl with.

Someone needed to make sure Michael was okay. He couldn't do it. He was still angry at Michael; part of him felt like the kid had deserved that beating.

His eyes flashed to the telephone. She would kill him.

But someone had to take care of Michael. Because looking at him, Lincoln wasn't completely sure he hadn't…well, Michael didn't look good.

He picked up the phone and dialed her number before he could stop himself.

……….

"You did what?" Veronica cried. "Lincoln!" She was aghast.

"Please Veronica. I have to take care of this mess." If she hadn't heard the desperation in Lincoln's voice, she might have felt differently. But there was something in that man's voice…

"I'm coming," she said.

"I'll lock the door," Lincoln said. "I've got to go."

"GO? Go where?" Veronica asked. But he'd hung up already.

She dropped the phone and cursed. Michael was in a pile on the floor, because of Lincoln, and Lincoln didn't know if he was alright, and he had to GO? Was the man crazy?

She grabbed her keys and dashed out the door.

….

"Michael?" he heard, along with a key in the lock. "Oh, God, honey. Are you okay?"

Honey. Veronica's voice. Her words.

"Vee?" he whispered around a swollen lip. He felt a hand touch his shoulder, and he flinched, but it was Veronica's delicate hand, not Lincoln's rough, angry one.

"Michael, what happened?" she asked. He felt her hands carefully checking his head for bumps. "Why did Lincoln do this?" She sounded nearly hysterical.

"I'm sorry," Michael whimpered. He felt more tears slide out of his eyes, impeded by the swelling from the left eye. "It's my fault."

"Michael, what do you mean?" Veronica asked. She helped him sit up. It hurt, and he kept his head down, ashamed to look her in the eye as she knelt next to him on their dirty carpet. "What on earth could you have done to deserve this?"

Michael shook his head. The tears kept falling. "You'd be surprised," he managed around his fat lip.

"Michael," she said.

"Ask Lincoln," he mumbled. "I fucked up a lot this time."

"Yeah, you fucking did." Lincoln's voice, from the doorway. Michael flinched hard. He felt Veronica's arms encircle his body protectively. "I talked with Crab."

"Crab?" Veronica said. Michael felt her shift away from him, trying to get a look at his face. "What were you doing with Crab?"

"He was selling. Coke. A lot of it," Lincoln said, slamming the apartment door. Michael flinched again.

"What? No…" Veronica said. "Michael?"

He could feel her eyes on him. He nodded, ever so slightly. It made the bruises on his face ache, so he stopped.

"So you beat him up?" Veronica asked. She let go of Michael and swiftly got to her feet. "Look what you did to him, Lincoln!"

"Yeah, and you know what? That's nothing, compared to what Crab could have done to him. If he fucked up with Crab? He kills people! Is that what you want, Mike?" Lincoln sidestepped Veronica and approached Michael again. Michael felt his body cringe down into the carpet. "No. Don't. Get up," Lincoln said. "Stand up, Michael."

Michael couldn't even get himself to move. He couldn't seem to do anything except shake. Lincoln grabbed for him.

"Lincoln, don't!" Veronica said.

"I'm not gonna do anything," Lincoln said, grabbing Michael's arm. Before Michael could react, Lincoln had yanked him to his feet. Instinctively, Michael threw his arms up to protect his face.

"Look what you've done to him, Lincoln!" Veronica said.

Michael dared a look at Lincoln's face. His brother was gritting his teeth. "Put your arms down," Lincoln commanded.

"Why?" Michael managed to ask.

"Because. I ain't gonna hit you again. Put 'em down."

Slowly, Michael lowered his arms to his sides. He could feel himself trembling still.

"Now, look at me," Lincoln said.

Michael lifted his eyes to Lincoln's. His brother's eyes were cold and steely looking.

"Listen to me, Michael. Are you listening?" Lincoln asked.

Michael nodded, the slightest of nods. He didn't dare take his eyes from his brother's.

"You are never going to do this shit again. You are not going to sell. For Crab, or for anyone else. You are gonna stay away from the fucking streets, and out of trouble, because you are too fucking smart to throw your life away like that. You're gonna go to FUCKING college, and get a FUCKING degree in whatever-the-fuck, and you're gonna be a FUCKING success. Do you hear me?" Lincoln's tone was dead serious. He licked his lips. "Promise me, Michael. Swear it."

Michael stared at Lincoln. He couldn't…after all that, could he really care?…and yet, Michael could hear how important this was to him.

"Swear it, Michael," Lincoln said, his voice rising. "You're not gonna be like me, you hear me? You're gonna be better. You're gonna be the one to make Mom proud. You'll be a fucking success. Swear it, now."

Looking into Lincoln's eyes, Michael could see. This meant everything to Lincoln. And if he didn't swear it, Lincoln just might kill him.

"Okay," Michael whispered.

"Okay, what?" Lincoln said.

"Okay," Michael repeated through bruised lips. "I swear."

Lincoln's face was still. Then, suddenly, he put out his hand.

Michael didn't flinch this time. He extended his own, and they shook. A solemn promise.

Behind Lincoln, he saw Veronica shake her head.

"You two have the most dysfunctional idea of love I've ever seen!" she cried.


	19. Chapter 19

"What if they'd sent you to Taylorville or Marion, and not here?" Veronica accused.

Michael played stupid. "I think I'd be doing the same thing I'm doing in here," he replied. "Eating Jell-o, drinking Kool-Aid…" He couldn't quite keep the little smirk off his face though, and he knew Veronica saw it.

The glare she gave him could have rivaled one of Lincoln's. "I know what you're doing," she said. "It's not the luck of the draw that you're in here, with Lincoln. You forget that I know you. BOTH of you," she emphasized. "You two have the most dysfunctional idea of love I've ever seen."

Michael kept the smirk, even as he nervously twitched his fingers. If he was anywhere else, he would have stood up, and started pacing, but here, that would have signaled the end of the visit, so all he could do was fidget.

"What, he beats you up to keep you off the streets, so you get yourself tossed into Fox River with him? To what? Save him?"

Now her voice was slightly mocking. Save him?

But Michael could. He could save his brother. And while Veronica didn't believe that, that was okay. She didn't have to. He stared into her eyes, their blue gazes meeting.

"I deserve to know. I loved him as much as you did," Veronica said.

Loved? Not for Michael.

"Past tense for you maybe," he replied. "Not me."

Veronica shook her head, looking a little shocked.

"I gave him a shot when I got back from college, I did," she defended herself. "Even with all the stuff that was going on with him, I did everything I could to make it work, and he threw it away."

Always Lincoln's fault. Of course.

"You ever think that maybe he was hurt that you left in the first place?" Michael asked.

Veronica gave him another searing blue look.

"Don't do this," she said. "Whatever it is you're doing, don't do it. There's a better way. I'm already appealing your case."

"I told you to leave that alone," Michael said harshly. Couldn't he make her see? He had to do this.

"I've gotten in touch with the diocese about Lincoln. The bishop may be able to help," Veronica continued.

"That won't stop it. That will only delay it," Michael insisted. His voice was rising, but he couldn't seem to keep it down. Damn it, she didn't understand. He took a deep breath, and looked around, to see if anyone was listening. Nobody appeared to be. He lowered his voice.

"You want to do something? You find out who's trying to bury him," Michael said evenly. He watched Veronica.

Her brows shifted. Michael got the distinct impression, just for a moment, that she thought he was crazy. "No one's trying to bury him," she said softly. He could hear the plea in her voice. "The evidence was there."

"The evidence was cooked," Michael replied, nearly whispering.

Her eyes were so wide. Did she believe him? Did she even want to? Michael couldn't even tell.

And then the bell rang, and the visiting hours were over. They both stood, awkwardly looking at each other. Veronica moved first, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Take care of yourself," she said into his shoulder, with all the stilted tenderness he remembered from his childhood. Some things never changed.

He took a breath. "Someone wants him dead, Veronica," he whispered into her ear as he held her tightly. "Something more is going on here."

Veronica stepped back from him with a look of exasperation on her face. "This is desperation, Michael. You're grabbing at straws. You're in denial."

"Maybe," Michael replied, knowing it wasn't true. "But I can't watch him die. I won't do that." He looked down at her, and tried to show her everything he knew, just through his eyes. He would not abandon his brother. Not after all of this.

She stared at him, just for a moment longer, then turned and walked away without another word, leaving Michael standing in the middle of the visitation room.

"Come on, Scofield," one of the guards called. "Get a move on!"

………

In his cell, Michael sat on the bottom bunk, thinking. About Lincoln, about himself, about Veronica. About everything, really.

He hadn't thought about that day in the apartment for a long time. That day; the last day in Michael's life that Lincoln had ever struck him in anger. It was so like Veronica to bring it up again. He could hear her voice, echoing in his head.

"What, he beats you up to keep you off the streets, so you get yourself tossed into Fox River with him? To what? Save him?" The mocking lilt to her voice. Save him. Save him?

Except that was exactly what Lincoln had done for Michael. He'd saved him, saved him from a life like Lincoln's own, on that day and so many others. Culminating in the day he'd borrowed that money from Crab that he knew full well he wouldn't be able to pay back, he was giving Michael a chance. Well, now it was Michael's turn. He was going to save Lincoln this time.

Of course, at the time Michael had not seen it like that, and things had changed between the brothers. Michael had changed. He'd pushed Lincoln away. But Lincoln had kept sacrificing things for Michael, even though Michael hadn't known it. He'd fought him; he'd been a real jerk, honestly. And Lincoln had kept giving things up. To help Michael. Because Michael was his brother, and no other reason.

And because of that, he owed Lincoln, for all of the good things in his life. His education, and by extension, his career, his money, his loft. It had been easy enough to give those things up, because now with the distance of a few years, he could see what Lincoln had given up for him.

They were brothers. That was what brotherhood meant. To love someone enough that you'd give up everything for them. To have their back. Lincoln had taught him that. And Michael had learned his lesson well.

He chuckled softly. Maybe a little too well, considering where it had landed him.

"What you laughing at Fish?" his cellie asked him from the bunk overhead.

Michael just shook his head. "Nothing," he said softly.

…………..

And after they'd gotten out, while they drove in an old car down a dark highway one night, Michael was surprised, because Lincoln said two words.

"Thank you."

He almost didn't comprehend. Why? What was Lincoln saying thank you for?

"My son. My life. Thank you, Michael." And he felt Lincoln's hand squeeze his shoulder, just once, before going back to the steering wheel.

And Michael understood, and yet he didn't. Because that was what brotherhood was all about, wasn't it?

So Michael shrugged, uncomfortable, and tapped his fingers against his leg.

And Lincoln didn't mind, because he understood too.

The End

Okay folks, so unless everyone hates the ending, this is it! Tell me what you think!


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